


Death and All His Friends

by Miggy



Series: Special [2]
Category: Glee, Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Amnesia, Character Death, Crossover, Superheroes, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:24:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 186,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miggy/pseuds/Miggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If they wanted happy endings, they chose the wrong line of work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Start a New Life

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Special, the first story in this series. That's pretty much required reading if you don't want to be extremely confused about what's going on within these pages.

Once there was a choir called New Directions. They discovered hidden memories and superpowers, and with them they saved the world. All of them returned to New York City, the home they'd never known they'd had. For a while, they worked toward greatness in their own individual ways.

Before their lives fell apart in rotting chunks like old masonry, they spent a time bright with hope.

* * *

"It's her," Finn said as he stared at the playbill.

Emma Frost studied it. "Are you sure?"

Finn looked uncertainly up at the West End theatre. A new show had opened the previous week. With good reviews and word of mouth it was already a big enough hit to fill all the seats, and they'd had to pull some strings to be allowed entrance. He didn't recognize any of the names in the cast, including 'Gina Weiss.' He recognized Gina's large, dark eyes, though, and the proud span of her mouth. Gina was Rachel. She _had_ to be. He just had no idea how she'd wound up in London, performing under an assumed name. "It's her. I don't know how it's her, but it is."

"Well, come on," Emma said and led him toward the door. "We won't be able to talk to her until after the show, regardless."

Finn wasn't wholly sure what to make of Emma Frost, headmistress of Xavier's school and an important member of the X-Men, but he was leaning toward disliking her. She was the woman who'd implanted their fake memories for Ohio, dooming many of them to social torment in the process. She was cold, treated Finn more like a servant than an equal, and had been a highly unpleasant travel partner.

And yet, she'd saved their lives. She'd figured out how to hide them while they were depowered and helpless, vulnerable to anyone hunting for them. In the end, she'd only been implementing someone else's plan and had done the best job of it that she could. Now that she and Finn were in contact, she even wanted to help him practice his psychic abilities. She was a stronger telepath than him and far more skilled. Finn didn't like her, but he didn't know if he could turn her down.

"I can tell that you're worried," Emma said softly as they took their seats.

"Yeah, you're psychic," Finn said.

"I haven't read your mind," she said. "And once I train you how to keep shields properly in place, I'd have to make a serious effort to do so. You do have potential." She adjusted her clothes. "No, it's that you haven't looked at my décolletage. You're a man in love."

Finn had no idea what that was, so he was pretty sure he hadn't looked at it. Whatever Emma was talking about, it was much more important to worry about Rachel.

She and two others on the Avengers had vanished during a mission. Anthem wasn't a full team member, though, and so the Avengers' resources had been devoted to recovering Tony Stark and Bruce Banner. It wasn't that they didn't care about Rachel, they explained, but they had their priorities. She had to come after they'd secured their biggest assets. 

None of Rachel's friends were willing to accept that. Kurt began using S.H.I.E.L.D.'s database to hunt for her, refusing to believe that she was dead. It was no use. Every hour was a fresh failure, and he finally, tearfully pleaded for Finn to stop asking him when he couldn't offer any answers. Shame dripped from his voice. Artie tried to help and was just as useless. Hiram and Leroy were beside themselves with fear, and didn't do any better with finding their baby girl.

Finn was left on his own, feeling even more worthless than them, until he suddenly wasn't.

If that 'big round room' in Salem Center had been strong enough to wipe his friends' memories and smooth their arrival into an entire town, Finn reasoned, then it should be able to track down one single person. He didn't know what 'Cerebra' was or what it did, but it had something to do with psychics and that was good enough for him. He rented a car and drove himself to what was apparently the headquarters of the X-Men. After a long explanation and a few carefully dropped names, he was allowed through the gates.

Emma hadn't let him use Cerebra. Untrained like he was, she explained, there was an excellent chance that it would blow his brains out the back of his skull. When she'd clarified that the threat was literal, Finn felt despair begin to overwhelm him. Rachel was gone and the single chance he'd found was a dead end.

Then Emma offered, for she, after all, was trained. It took a while for her to run the amplified psychic scan that Cerebra allowed, and she'd kept digging into Finn's mind to get echos of what Rachel Berry should feel like, but she'd eventually landed on a possibility.

Now they were watching the curtain rise on that someone who hadn't replied to his phone calls and was going by a different name. "I don't understand," he whispered to Emma as the orchestra started. Someone shushed him. He glared, then moved to telepathy. _Why is she pretending not to be Rachel? She was happy with her team. I thought she was happy with me._

_She might not be aware of what's happened,_ Emma thought back. _Tony and Bruce were disoriented when they were recovered today._

Finn guessed that was true, but she should have remembered something. The show began. Actors he didn't care about sang songs he didn't like, and Finn squirmed in his seat.

_Stop it,_ Emma thought.

He made a face at her. Emma Frost was gorgeous: statuesque figure, classically beautiful features that put even Quinn's to shame, and quite possibly the most revealing wardrobe he'd ever seen on someone outside of a paid website. But he just wanted Rachel next to him and for her to be okay. His breath caught as he saw Gina walk onstage, and again when she sang her first, perfect note. _It's Rachel,_ Finn thought. Tears came to his eyes. He'd found her and she was safe. No one else could sound like that.

_All right,_ Emma thought when she took in his certainty. _We'll... convince the security personnel to let us into her dressing room after the show._

Three hours had never seemed so long. Finn nearly bolted for the doors at intermission. Only the sharpness of Emma's glare kept him in his seat, and he sat through the second half with a queasy feeling in his stomach. He wanted to know what had happened to her, and he wanted to know now. Finally, blessedly, the curtain fell. He was in motion before the cast came back out for their calls and Emma was close on his heels.

Getting past the guards was simple. "I'm not supposed to mess with people's minds," Finn said warily as he watched Emma control the guards like puppets.

"We're not supposed to do a lot of things," Emma replied, "until we are."

Well, that made no sense. Finn stayed quiet and let her lead them to Rachel's door. "Rachel," Finn breathed when she opened it. Emma shot him a dark look, but he didn't care. They'd found her.

"You're that man," Rachel said, her eyes wide. "The one who called me over the phone." Her voice pitched higher for security, and with an annoyed grunt Emma silenced her and shoved her inside the room.

"You have no sense of stealth whatsoever," Emma said as she pointed Rachel to the couch. Though her face was filled with terror, Rachel's body complied.

"Yeah, Kurt tells me that. Remember him?" Finn asked hopefully, turning from Emma to Rachel. "Kurt?"

"Please don't hurt me," Rachel whispered. Finn flinched.

"I don't know her," Emma said to Finn. "Her mind isn't familiar territory to me. You're positive this is Anthem?"

Finn took in Rachel's face, listened to her voice, and slipped his mind into hers. It was covered like a mask, but he could just feel familiar edges underneath. "It's Rachel."

"All right, then," Emma said, and placed her hands on Rachel's temples. Rachel's breathing sped and sweat trickled down her face, but she didn't run or scream. Emma wasn't letting her. "The only tricky part was identifying her positively. I can see what I need to rip away if she really has been masked, but doing so would have left someone else in quite a state."

Finn stared at Rachel. "You're sure it's safe to—"

Emma swept a wave of telepathic energy across the room and he cringed under its power. Rachel's back arced as she cried mutely at the ceiling. Finn saw one beautiful second of recognition in her eyes before she collapsed, unconscious. "Is she okay?" he asked as he lunged toward Rachel and collected her in his arms.

"She'll probably sleep for a day or two," Emma said and adjusted her gloves, "and will have a headache for a week. But she'll be fine."

Relieved, Finn placed a kiss on her forehead. 

"Now," Emma continued, "I need to go secure an exit from this building so that we're not arrested when we walk out of here with one of their lead actresses slung over your shoulder."

An hour later, Finn carefully adjusted Rachel in her seat inside the X-Men's plane. It was a small private jet, and Finn was struck by unfortunate flashbacks to the last time he'd been in such a small craft. He'd been possessed, used to kill someone, and eventually pushed toward his own death that night. He wondered if his counted as the first death among their friends, with how Brittany had reversed it. Death was an unfortunately common companion to those with superpowers. It was why he'd been so terrified over Rachel's disappearance: he'd jumped straight to the worst case scenario.

She really could have been dead, Finn thought, and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. All of them were halfway sure she was.

He'd seen the dull acceptance in Mike, Tina, and Mercedes' eyes at the office, and in Kurt's when he turned away from the S.H.I.E.L.D. computer yet again. It had even been in Burt and Carole when they reassured him that everything would work out. Finn could read thoughts and lift tons; he might not be smart, but his brain was strong in its own way. It had been all too easy to hear that Burt felt sorry for him and that Carole was thinking of ways to comfort her grieving son when he had his fears confirmed.

Finn and Emma sat for takeoff and were soon in the air. The steering column in the cockpit moved by itself; the X-Men had phenomenal autopilot software.

"I can't believe the Avengers were going to abandon her," Finn said when they'd left the British shores behind.

"They didn't abandon her," Emma corrected. "They prioritized."

"Well, no one should be prioritized above Rachel!"

"So you'd hunt for the barely-trained novice over Iron Man and the Hulk, both of whom have saved so many people that they make your little adventures look like games at recess." Emma poured herself a glass of champagne. "And that's why you're working out of a basement office instead of a skyscraper penthouse."

Finn considered tweaking her mind, like a telepathic equivalent to poking someone obnoxiously on their shoulder.

"I'm a telepath too, you fool." She took another sip of champagne. "And my shields are steel to your tissue paper. When she's a full team member, then trust me, all efforts would be made to find her immediately. They would have called me on my own, rather than making you come up to the school." Emma looked him over with an arched eyebrow. She was extraordinarily good at giving those judgmental looks. Under it, his irritation fell away and Finn felt like he should apologize for being tall, brown-haired, and generally him. "I expect you to provide me with times when you'll be available for psychic training, by the way."

"Yes, ma'am," Finn said obediently. Emma narrowed her eyes. "Miss. Uh. Emma."

"Better. You'll learn about solving problems by any means necessary, as well. If we couldn't have found her with Cerebra, then there'd be the potential for Doctor Strange to perform some magical scrying, or... what?"

"Doctor Strange?" Finn repeated.

"Stephen Strange is one of the most powerful individuals on this planet," Emma said. She adjusted her gloves again with sharp flicks of her wrists. "The Sorcerer Supreme of Earth. He deals with tremendous forces, dimensional walls, life and death itself."

"Doctor Strange, Doctor Doom, Mr. Fantastic," Finn mumbled to himself. "And people made fun of 'the Awesomes.'" She shot him a withering glare, but whatever: their names were stupid, no matter how powerful they were. "I'm gonna take a nap, all right?" He'd barely slept since setting off to drive up to Salem Center and they had a transatlantic flight still ahead of them.

"Fine," Emma said. "I can already tell that you'll present me with no shortage of trouble."

Finn agreed with her vaguely and then sank into the seat next to Rachel. She made a soft noise and turned to him before going slack again.

She was alive, Finn thought with relief as he stroked her hair. They'd found her. It wasn't the worst case scenario. Finn knew other people had watched him die before Brittany turned back the clock. When he thought of that, he feared. If it happened to him, despite being only seventeen when he took a bullet to the head, it could happen to anyone. He'd be one hundred percent okay if he were the only one of them to ever die before they were old and grey in their beds.

* * *

"How are you doing?" Kurt asked Rachel gently, a week later.

Her fork twirled in her pasta. He gave her time to answer without prodding further. "I suppose I'm fine," Rachel said.

"That didn't sound very convincing," Mercedes said.

They sat for a while again. A cold front had moved over the city and September felt like late October. They'd taken a seat inside the restaurant, near the window. New York seemed quiet outside as they waited. "I'm not hurt," Rachel said. "It wasn't like it was _traumatizing_ to be opening a show in the West End. I was singing. I love performing as much as I love helping people." The tines of her fork scratched her plate. "But we all spent years not knowing who we really were," she finally finished. "I hate knowing that someone else was able to stop me from being _me_ again. I had no idea who I was, and that's terrifying."

"Brains are a lot easier to mess with than they should be," Kurt agreed. "At least your psychic boyfriend was helping get your memories back, instead of shielding them from you because he didn't want you making out with Puck."

Rachel managed to laugh, which Kurt had hoped for. "Not to say that he'd be happy if I did kiss Puck," she said and finally scooped up a real forkful of food.

"Neither would I," Kurt pointed out.

"It'd be fine," Mercedes said with a grin as the mood at the table brightened. "You all could just trade around a little. Rachel takes Puck, and Kurt takes—"

"Do not finish that sentence," Kurt said and gestured at her with his butter knife.

"But you _loved_ him," Mercedes crooned. He flipped his knife around to get a better grip, like he was really going to drive it through her heart, and she burst out giggling.

Rachel joined her. "Thank you," she said. "I needed this. It's been all business in the Tower, and I just had to remember being me."

After a pointed look at Mercedes that dared her to start teasing him again, Kurt smiled at Rachel. "We're just glad to have you back. We were frantic, you have no idea."

"At least Kurt could do something," Mercedes added. "He used his big fancy computers and worked on finding you. We're supposed to be able to hunt down info, but three of us were sitting there as totally useless 'private investigators' even after Finn realized he could do his brain deal. Sam tried, too. Guess he's not gonna be an investigative reporter any time soon."

Kurt eyed her and said nothing. She and Sam were taking another semi-break, even if they hadn't officially labeled it. His work was stressful, her work was stressful, and they'd started taking out their stress on each other. It was either see each other full-time again in a few months or never want to see each other again. 

"I appreciate it," Rachel said. "Really. In the end, it took an incredibly well-trained psychic using one of most powerful amplifiers on earth to find me. You didn't fail. It was a high bar to cross."

Kurt neatly dissected another lamb chop before he replied. It was in perfect, even pieces like a surgeon had gone at it. He'd only taken one stroke per cut and the girls looked very mildly impressed. "What was it like, though? You said you were fine, but you've just been sleeping and getting your mind checked. You've barely told us anything about what really happened."

"We know what it's like to have false memories," Rachel said, shrugging. "It felt like waking up from those, but all at once. It overwhelmed me, I'm just now over my headaches, and I'll be fine. I'm back where I should be." Her finger traced her water glass and she admitted, "It felt wonderful, though. It was exactly what I used to dream of. If Finn and Ms. Frost had tried to tell me why they were there instead of just ripping off those false memories, I would have had them arrested. I would have stayed in London for the rest of my life, never knowing who I really was. And I'd have been blissfully happy as you all mourned me and while people died because I wasn't there to save them." Tempted by their own personal paradise: it was actually quite a clever attack to launch on a group of heroes.

Kurt squeezed her hand. "I have an idea. I have ridiculous contacts through S.H.I.E.L.D."

Mercedes gestured with a roll at Rachel. "I think she's got ridiculous contacts, too. Avengers, remember? Meanwhile, I'm faced with working on my bookkeeping homework all evening. I just came here for my lunch hour cause you guys were paying." She grinned to softened her last line and they both smiled back at her.

"I know someone who knows someone who would love a live singer at her club," Kurt continued. "I know you can't commit to a recurring role, but...." He shrugged. "But you were born to be onstage, however it happens."

"That might be fun," Rachel said. "And what about you?"

"I can't," Kurt demurred.

"You can't, even if you use a stage name?" she asked right back. Mercedes looked at him just as pointedly. She and the rest of their crew haunted karaoke bars for stress relief, Kurt knew; they'd stuck with performing even after they spent their days solving crimes. They got attention when they walked in. They were famous, even if only in that small circle.

"Maybe if I use a stage name," he said. He couldn't really promise anything, though. At most, maybe he'd see about joining the agency on their trips to karaoke bars. While the party Rachel had thrown at the Tower was entertaining, he did miss having an audience of strangers.

They worked through the bulk of their lunches in silence, interrupted only by occasional commentary on their meals. Kurt kept glancing at Rachel. She let him observe her.

He hadn't known if she were truly gone or not. She was a missing person, Schrödinger's cat. So long as they didn't hear anything, they feared; so long as they didn't hear the worst, they hoped. Now she was back in New York and the only thing she'd suffered was losing her outdated dreams. As far as enemies went, Kurt thought as he sipped his sparkling water, that had to be one of the kindest the Avengers had faced. 

Colonel Nick Fury had started griping about chaos powers and telepathy and magic again, and how he hated anything that could change the world and people's perceptions. Kurt fought back a smile at the memory. As a friend of Brittany Pierce and Finn Hudson-né-Hutton's brother, Kurt got more than his fair share of glares directed at him during Fury's complaints. But in the end, the Avengers' foe had turned out to be a billionaire who viewed himself as Stark's rival and whose powers were all bought off eBay, and everything was neatly wrapped up.

_Funny,_ Kurt thought to himself as he finished. _A billionaire bought magical powers and nearly stole your friend away from you forever, and it's just a normal day at the office._ Their lives had become very strange.

"I've been gone," Rachel said as she dabbed her mouth with her napkin. "We promised we'd call once he was settled in. It's well into the semester. Let's call, I want to do normal things again."

Kurt stared blankly at Rachel before he remembered their collective promise to call Blaine and see how he liked Brown University. He'd been in contact with Blaine, of course, but this was going to be a friendly collective send-off into his new life. Then Rachel had vanished. "Of course," he said, and shook his head once. It was terrible of him to have forgotten.

Mercedes made the call. Kurt knew that his would be the most dangerous phone number to show up on Blaine's caller ID. Rachel's was slightly better, as some of the Avengers maintained normal social lives. Even so, the people adjacent to the famous team risked being collateral damage. Mercedes lived as normal a superpowered life as was possible. "Hey, you," she soon said warmly. "How's Rhode Island? You're on speaker."

"I love it," said Blaine. "Who am I talking to?"

Their server shot them a dirty look as she delivered their bill. Apparently, speakerphone conversations weren't appreciated in the restaurant. Kurt gave her his credit card quickly. "Rachel and I, along with Mercedes. I know we talked a little online about school, but everything really looks good? Do you have a roommate?"

"I do," Blaine said. "All freshmen do."

"I know, but yours just didn't show up the first week." Apparently, that boy had a crisis of confidence about leaving home for a school across the country. 

"Mmm, right. They assigned someone else. His name's Richmond, he's actually a sophomore who missed the housing lottery, and he's straight out of a book on WASP stereotypes. He showed up the first day practically wearing my wardrobe, too, and I think he thought we were destined to be best friends forever. Then I mentioned I'm in drama." Theatre was the first of Blaine's concentrations.

"And he's taking?" Rachel asked.

"Computational biology." He took in their silence. "I know, I don't have any idea what that is, either. But my major being so different convinced him to give me a foot of distance, at least. I'm holding off on mentioning public policy so I don't encourage him, since I think he'd like that. He's nice enough, just... enthusiastic."

Kurt signed the check and added a tip, and they headed for the door. "So," he said neutrally. "He's 'enthusiastic?' Is he nice?"

"Blaine just said he was nice. Weren't you listening?" Mercedes asked with a smirk and Kurt shot her a dirty look.

Blaine's voice practically carried a smirk, too. "His girlfriend seems to think so."

Oh. Well, fine. "That's good," Kurt said. He was happy, he was seeing someone, and he and Blaine hadn't been going together for years. Still, there was an unspoken assumption they'd held to despite their best initial intentions: don't talk about dating. They could talk about work or school, they could talk about apartments, they could talk about family, but romance was off-limits. It had worked well for them, but perhaps it wasn't healthy to do this forever. If they were friends, they should be able to talk about anything.

Mercedes and Rachel exchanged a look. "Here," Mercedes said, and clicked a button on her phone. The speaker died. "I'm going to go ask Rachel about London, and you two are going to talk without an audience." After pressing the phone into Kurt's hand, the girls walked off arm-in-arm.

Smiling and shaking his head, Kurt raised the phone to his ear. "Apparently, I'm not very subtle."

"You can be," Blaine said. "You can also be like—"

"Las Vegas at midnight, I know." Kurt took a deep breath. "It's been two years. We should be able to talk about everything, and we both know there's been one big area where that hasn't happened. Did you date anyone at Dalton before you graduated?"

Blaine hesitated. "Yes. There were two boys. One ended poorly, and I'd rather not get into it, and the other was very sweet."

"Did I ever meet him? The second one?" Kurt asked. He didn't actually know if he wanted a face to put to that 'sweet' description. If Blaine had described the first one a bit more intensely, Kurt might have asked for enough information to track the boy down. A special agent had plenty of shady tactics to leave someone afraid of his own shadow. So long as he was judicious with terrifying people, Kurt doubted he'd take too much heat for abusing his powers.

"No. He enrolled after you left. It was just for his last two years, and so we graduated at the same time. Ethan. Very kind, quite shy, and fond of tennis. He looks like a young Idris Elba." Each word made Kurt grumpier, but he fought to contain that reaction. They were friends, after all. They _should_ be able to talk about their boyfriends. Maybe it would have been easier if they'd ended their relationship in a screaming argument, instead of with both of them saying how much they didn't want the inevitable to happen and that it could have worked in another world. Kurt was in love with someone else, _happy_ with someone else, but a dark selfish part of him wanted Blaine to forever mourn his decision to break up with Kurt.

"He does sound sweet," Kurt said. The word curdled on his tongue. "But you split up?"

"He went to Pomona. California to Rhode Island was a little far to try to keep anything going." 

"I'm sorry." Kurt managed to make that sound sincere, mostly meant it, and he took pride in both.

"You've steered clear of telling me anything, too," Blaine said after the line was silent for a few beats. "Has there been anyone?"

"Another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent," Kurt said. "Jack. It was a long distance problem there, too. He transferred to a base in Japan." Jack didn't operate on the front lines like Kurt, but he still had basic defensive training. Meeting him was the first time Kurt had relaxed in the way he'd never been able to when someone smiled at him on the street. _This man won't wind up in a hospital bed,_ Kurt had thought as he watched Jack unload a full clip of bullets into a target.

Jack was ten years older than Kurt, though, and he'd wanted to boost his career before it was too late. Kurt didn't blame him for that. Even ended, the relationship was a jolt of confidence. Kurt had done it: he'd dated someone and that person hadn't been brainwiped or nearly died. After that triumph, he went on dates with other agents and men with powers. Even if none of them had really been serious before Puck returned, it felt so wonderfully normal.

"Kurt?" Blaine asked when Kurt lost himself for a bit too long in those recollections. He didn't want to broach the present. "Did that end... poorly?"

"No. It wasn't that. Jack was wonderful, he just had to leave." Kurt bit his lip. "I was debating telling you that I'm seeing someone right now."

"Why would you tell me about one person, and not... ah," Blaine said. Kurt blushed. Yes, sometimes he was very transparent, and Blaine clearly remembered the near-showdown that he and Puck had held while Kurt remained oblivious. "For how long?"

"He showed up about two months ago. Maybe closer to three, by now. We spent the first month getting him settled back in to his life here, and, well." Kurt swallowed. "Puck's a really good guy."

"I know. I knew that when he saved my life. I heard that he even waited around to see how things went with me." Blaine took a deep breath. "If he can save me, then he can keep you safe, too."

Kurt started in surprise. Their breakup had been because Blaine had been injured, not Kurt. "I didn't realize you worried about that."

"Of course I do," Blaine said quietly. "Every time you take a while to reply to a message, I worry about where you are."

"Oh."

"Everyone does. Maybe you don't realize that."

"Oh," Kurt repeated, and clutched the phone more closely. "It's... I'm fine. And you're right, Puck's very tough. I could block anything fast before it hit him, and he could block anything big before it hit me. We're both safe, all right?" 

"All right. I'll try to remember that the next time it takes you a few days to reply. Ah, I have class in twenty minutes, and I should really put on something besides this t-shirt...."

Kurt smiled and wondered if Blaine would stick to his routine during his entire undergraduate career. If he lived up to the campus stereotype, he'd walk out of senior year with unstyled hair and at least one accessory made from hemp. Perhaps his WASPy roommate would keep him in line, or perhaps Richmond would wind up streaking across the quad. "Of course. It was good talking to you. I'll be sure to reply to any messages right away, so that you don't worry."

"Thank you," Blaine said sincerely. "Tell Mercedes and Rachel goodbye for me, all right?" He didn't offer any message to Puck, but Kurt supposed they could take things one step at a time. 

"That took a while," Mercedes said after Kurt found the girls window shopping and returned her phone.

"I told him about Puck," Kurt said.

Rachel looked intrigued. Apparently, the lure of gossip far outweighed any lingering effects from being brainwashed and dumped in London. "And?"

"He seems all right with it so long as Puck serves as my eternal human shield," Kurt said with amusement. He saw Mercedes checking the clock on her phone and did the same with his. They'd taken too long. She'd be late getting back to work. "Here," he said, and held out a few bills.

When Kurt or Rachel asked Mercedes to come see them, going well out of her way for their benefit, Mercedes showed no guilt in letting them pay. "Thanks. I gotta go, all right? I'm always the person ragging on people when they show up late, so I need to get back pronto."

Rachel drew her into a firm hug. "Thank you for caring that I vanished."

"Are you crazy? Of course I cared," Mercedes said and squeezed her back, hard. "Don't go taking off again. You need to stay right here in New York and kick butt right where we can see you."

"I'll try my very best," Rachel said.

"You'd better." Mercedes waved one last time at them and then managed to hail a cab. She soon vanished into the sea of traffic and was gone.

Kurt's arm snaked around Rachel's waist and he pulled her close. "She's right. You need to stay right where we can see you."

"You really were worried, weren't you?" Rachel asked. "More than you've told me."

"Rachel, I remember what you looked like when you were six years old, and I thought I'd never see you again. I was losing my mind." Kurt swallowed. "I know now you weren't in any danger, but I didn't know that then."

She leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Well, thank you for worrying. Let's figure out how you'll be able to sing on stage with me, at least once. I don't care if you are a big fancy agent. We'll come up with a stage name."

They set off walking down the street together, with Kurt's arm still snug around her. "Please don't say you're going to invite your bosses."

"I have to, Kurt. I'm trying to make a good impression on everyone."

"When Tony Stark gets near alcohol, he gets drunk." Kurt grumbled at the memory of a visit to the Tower, when Rachel had held a karaoke party for her friends and teammates. 

She'd invited everyone but Sam in that first visit, to see how all those superpowered people did together. Kurt smirked at the memory. With how Finn had accidentally angered Bruce Banner, it was a good thing Sam had stayed away.

"Tony's drunk a lot," Rachel said. "He's fine."

"No. When he gets drunk, he gets friendly."

"I know he gets handsy, but I'm quite capable of managing Tony. He's never a threat. At worst, he's... an annoyance."

Kurt cleared his throat. "At worst, he tells me 'either ditch the butch haircut or visit this great surgeon I know in Hollywood, babe,' before he gropes my chest." He wasn't sure if he'd ever wanted to punch a man in the nose more.

Rachel tried to cover her smile. She'd pay for that.

Kurt harrumphed. "I'm never saying a word around him again. Apparently, drunk Tony is easily confused."

"I'll find a way to keep Tony away from you," Rachel promised.

"You'd better." Despite their jabs, it was so good to have her back, Kurt thought as they walked in comfortable silence. Their definition of 'normal' might be an unusual one, but he still wanted it.


	2. Glamorous

"Up and at 'em."

Sam groaned as someone nudged his shoulder. Office supplies and old newspapers surrounded him in the niche he'd found at the end of a far hall. After running all across Manhattan, collecting quotes from distracted Wall Street brokers and inappropriately chatty doormen, Sam's feet ached. He still smelled like the subway and the mere thought of getting back on it worsened his headache. Couldn't he just sleep in the office?

"If Jameson catches someone sleeping here, he dumps out yesterday's leftover coffee into their ear."

Sam groaned again, but he sat up. Peter Parker, his fellow employee at the Daily Bugle, smiled in amusement at him. "I was just resting my eyes," Sam said.

"Yeah, and from the sound of it, testing that motorboat engine up your nose. Can I ask you something? I looked all over the office to find you."

"Sure," Sam said, wiping at his eyes. A tiny face appeared in front of him and he sat up a little straighter. "Hey," Sam said, and smiled dopily as he woke up more. "I know her."

Peter handed his full stack of photos to Sam. "For some crazy reason, Jameson wasn't interested in buying a bunch of pictures of a superhero fighting a 'basement dweller.' You really do know her? I knew you were friends with heroes, but you've never told me who."

Sam snorted as he looked at the pictures of Brittany taking on a man who, truth be told, did look like a bit of a pathetic neckbeard. "Yeah. I went to school with her for a year, and I guess we're still friends now. Her name's, um, Haywire."

"Yeah, everyone knows about Haywire," Peter said and perched on the edge of Sam's desk. "Brittany's dating that hot girl on the TV show. They're all from Ohio, you're from Ohio... I figured I'd ask."

Oh. That made sense. Hey, Peter was pretty smart. 

"Brittany being on that show is why I figured Mr. Jameson would want pictures of her, when I saw the fight going down." Peter sighed and reclaimed the pictures. "But apparently it doesn't matter if a hero's kinda famous, not when she's fighting someone as stupid as the 'Immortal Lord of Super Hell.'"

Sam leaned over to see the pictures again. That was a sufficiently dorky codename for a man whose cape appeared to be made out of a ratty blanket, and whose spellbook had a library sticker on it. That 'ancient tome' was probably a biography of Nostradamus, or maybe Abraham Lincoln. If someone didn't have real powers, Sam thought, they should go for something more manageable: archery or fighting skills or gymnastics. Attempting to summon hellfire was destined to fail. "So," he asked as he leaned comfortably back into his chair, "what else did you want to ask me?"

"If you know any other superheroes who might be doing something cool anytime soon... would you mind telling me?" Peter smiled apologetically. "Sorry. Mr. Jameson's just tired of getting pictures of Spider-Man, and I need to find someone else to shoot. He goes through cycles like this and he's not giving me any other jobs to cover. And I'd kind of like to make rent this month."

Ah, the glamorous New York life. "You know Snowfall and Wildfire, right?" Sam asked. If Brittany was vaguely famous as Santana's girlfriend, Santana and Quinn themselves were far better catches as the stars of the show. "Let me see if I can get you in whenever they throw another party." They'd all gotten an invitation at least once, but Sam had begged off after that first time on camera. Everyone there had judged his clothes so openly that even he noticed it, and he'd only wound up onscreen for two seconds, out of focus.

Peter started in surprise. "Wait, you know them that well?"

"It's been a while, but I used to date both of them," Sam said.

The look on Peter's face was nothing short of awe.

"This is quite a party back here," said a third voice. Both men turned to see their co-worker, Betty Brant, weaving between the stacks of boxes. She dug through one and triumphantly retrieved a carton of pens. 

"You haven't gone home yet?" Peter asked her pointedly. 

"No, but neither have you," she fired back. "Actually, some of us were talking about going to Franco's in a few. You're welcome to come with, if you want." 

Sam shook his head. "I shouldn't," he demurred.

"Okay," Betty said and shrugged. "See you tomorrow, boys." Her hips swayed as she walked away from them in a tight pencil skirt, and Sam watched a beat too long.

"I won't tell if you won't," Peter said. At Sam's confusion, he added, "We've both got girlfriends, right? No harm in just looking."

Sam's head sank into his hands. No, there wasn't any harm in just looking. After he'd gone two weeks putting off seeing Mercedes, though, 'just looking' felt nearly like a betrayal. Neither of them could throw around money on cab fare. The thought of dealing with extra mass transit trips made both of them want to scream at the end of their long days. Some nights she was busy with her business classes, besides, and Sam occasionally lost free evenings to events that he needed to cover for the paper. 

They only lived a couple of miles apart. The distance would have meant nothing in suburbia, during high school. But in New York, when they were working their first real jobs and aiming toward actual careers... they were both just _tired._ Now, it was all too easy to look at a tight pencil skirt and to listen to an invitation for a bar only two doors down. And he felt like a schmuck for doing it. Were he and Mercedes taking a real break? Sam didn't even know. "Hey, uh, I need to go," Sam said. "I'll see if Santana and Quinn are up for that invite, all right?"

"Thanks," Peter said. "Have a good night."

Sam tried. The man pressed against him in the subway car reeked faintly of urine, and the woman behind him smelled like some sort of spiced meat. Two teenagers held a very loud argument over the extent of Justin Bieber's crimes against humanity. Another teen's iPod played so loudly through his headphones that Sam wondered if he'd already gone deaf. 

New York was exhausting, Sam thought as he slouched out of the station near his apartment. Some people had easy lives handed to them and they made his look all the harder in comparison. Santana, Brittany, and Quinn had a major network falling all over itself for them. Artie was already making money off his inventions, and had a new Tribeca loft that probably cost more than all of Lima. Kurt had a government agency giving him everything he'd ever dreamed of. Even when Rachel had vanished from her skyscraper home, she'd been sent to another perfect, tempting life.

A roar ripped by overhead, and Sam looked up to see Iron Man disappearing down the block. A smile quirked Sam's lips.

That was why he was in New York.

He was where the heroes were, and that was worth everything. They had the weight of the world upon their shoulders. They were his idols. He could deal with a stressful nine-to-five job, because they did so much more. He was living in that shadow of something greater.

He was still tired, and his feet still ached, but Sam stepped a little lighter on the rest of his walk home.

* * *

"Do you think we made the wrong choice?"

Tina looked up at Mercedes. She was sitting on a garbage bag spread on the floor as Mercedes carefully tucked her hair into aluminum foil. "About what?"

Mercedes sighed and finished another square. "About life. We could've been big fancy heroes. We probably still could." Tina's hair was a good four inches shorter than it used to be. Going to the salon was expensive, and so they'd experimented with home coloring. It went poorly until they worked the kinks out. Tina had decided to lop off the fried ends to her hair and start fresh.

"Where'd this come from?" Tina asked, which was a fair question. It had been a rough start to running their own business, but their investigative firm was slowly gaining a foothold in the neighborhood. They had to pick discount brands, still, but no longer had to worry that they wouldn't be able to buy anything at all without pleading to their parents for help. There was something satisfying about paying that rent bill every month. The faces of their grateful clients could never be replaced, and they'd been the last hope for some people in desperate need.

Still.

Mercedes gestured to the television, which had been muted as they talked. "Look."

"Oh," Tina said as the last few seconds of a commercial played. Quinn and Santana's show, Unmasked, had just returned for its second season. They were NBC's new darlings. The network was short on popular names and so their treatment was particularly good. Now that they were a proven commodity, even more advertisers were flocking in for product placement. Quinn and Santana's wardrobes had as many designer pieces as Kurt's.

Tina didn't turn back until halfway through the next commercial. "Do you seriously think we'd get a show like that?" she asked. Her tone wasn't cynical, simply realistic. They'd lived inside their skins, after all.

"They've got a brown lesbian on there," Mercedes pointed out, but of course Tina was right. The reason that they'd never debated doing a show was that a network executive had never proposed one to them. She wasn't naive enough to think there wasn't a reason for that. Two girls who fit right into a magazine cover mold and had perfectly complimentary powers? It was no wonder Quinn and Santana had money and fame thrown at them. Meanwhile, the two of them were in a tiny walkup on Hester Street, faced with a long subway ride each morning. 

"It wouldn't have to be a show," Mercedes eventually said as she folded in two more foils. "Rachel lives in that big fancy skyscraper, and she's on the biggest team in the world."

"Yeah," Tina said. "And we _don't_ want to be on a team. Remember? And remember how she nearly vanished forever 'cause she was part of that team?"

The four of them took it as a point of minor pride that while S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers had failed to find Rachel, one of them had pinned her down. Even if three of them had been useless. "I know, I know," Mercedes said. The two of them probably could join one of those big teams if they wanted. Maybe not the Avengers, but something. Her shields were useful and so was Tina's energy manipulation. But they really didn't want to meet the same fate as Rachel. 

"Kurt wakes up every morning with a view over Central Park," Tina finally said. "That must be nice." She glanced at their view of a brick wall across the air shaft. "A thousand square feet, plasma screen TV...."

Mercedes didn't say anything, as she realized then how little Tina knew. Kurt's life did look amazing from the outside but she didn't envy it except in flashes. He and Tina texted, they chatted online, and they called each other, but Tina hadn't seen how pale Kurt was after a mission that he wasn't allowed to talk about. Mercedes had. She'd watched him order comfort food and tried to meet his far-off stare. Even after her worst days at work, she hadn't looked so drained.

Only Finn really knew most of what Kurt did to make his big, fancy living, and he didn't share a word of it. Kurt hadn't actually told him, as it was all classified. But what Kurt knew, Finn eventually knew as well, if only in broad strokes. When Mercedes asked how Kurt was doing, Finn blew her off with words like "important" and "complicated" and "dangerous." She stopped asking. Mercedes decided that she didn't want to vanish for days or weeks at a time to do important, complicated, dangerous missions that she could never discuss and left her looking half dead. A shiny apartment wasn't worth that.

"Yeah," Tina said dreamily. Mercedes realized she was still idealizing Kurt's home. "I could totally handle a place like Kurt's. Finn totally lucked out."

"When's the last time you saw Kurt?" Mercedes asked.

"Um... last week?"

"No, not texted or called. Actually saw him."

Tina frowned. "Oh. I guess it's been a couple of months, at Rachel's party. Wow, I hadn't realized. That's so weird. We're in the same city and everything."

It was so much harder to break out of their own easy circles when they didn't all walk the same school hallways every day. Mercedes mostly saw the people she worked with, the other students taking bookkeeping lessons, and Sam. And even the two of them were on a mostly-break again. She was dealing with getting her business certificate as he handled the world's most demanding boss at the Bugle.

Sometimes her life felt like it was creaking back and forth like a rusted hinge. Mercedes had stepped on a cockroach that morning. In her shower. Naked. She should've taken another second to smash the damn thing with her body wash. When she wasn't dealing with an apartment that definitely wasn't TV-ready, Mercedes missed her boyfriend. It'd be nice to meet Sam outside of rigidly scheduled and increasingly rare dates. And she missed Rachel. She missed the boy who'd once been her best friend.

"Isn't this when your dreams are supposed to start coming true?" Mercedes asked. They'd all come to the city so full of hope. "At our age?" Screw it. It was a introspective and weepy night. She wanted snacks and stupid movies.

"No," Tina said. "High school is 'the best time of your life.' Or your thirties. It depends on who you ask. I think it's pretty much accepted that your twenties are a giant painful grind of bad jobs and stress."

"Great," Mercedes said, and wondered what her friendships would look like when she did hit thirty. "I'm making popcorn while your hair cooks."

Tina smiled. Behind her, a silly NBC sitcom had a teaser graphic pop up along its bottom edge. Quinn and Santana's faces beamed brightly over their show's logo. "Kay. So, uh... how's Kurt been doing? Since you brought it up?"

"He seems okay," Mercedes said. "I mean, from what he tells me." Tina looked confused, and Mercedes said, "I see him more than you, but it's not anything like before."

"Oh. Sorry," Tina said, and got up to help her in the kitchen. 

"Sorry for what? You didn't do anything wrong."

Tina nudged Mercedes' shoulder with hers. "For how you feel like you're barely able to spend time with your best friend?"

Mercedes smiled sadly. _Let's be real_ , she told herself. Kurt had three main people in his life, now, and they were the same three he'd had when he was thirteen years old. "You kidding me?" she asked, and nudged Tina back. "I live with my best friend."

Tina's grin spread enormously, and they got their snacks together.

* * *

"I love it," Quinn as she lifted her new dress out of its bag. Cut simply, it was made of cornflower blue silk jersey printed with small white flowers. A scribbled note stapled to the bag suggested that it be used immediately for the late-season weekend Hamptons trip the producers had discussed for their third episode.

"DVF," the production assistant said after checking the label. The office was bright and airy around them, even with the piles of designer clothes. "The network's decided that you both need to wear all American designers from this point out."

"Sure, whatever," Santana said as she tried on a miniskirt. 

"It helps with the whole 'patriotic hero' angle," the PA explained needlessly.

"We didn't ask," Santana said, wriggled out of her skirt, and lobbed it at his head. It didn't matter to her that he was in the room as she stripped; he worked in entertainment and had perfect highlights in his perfect copper hair. This guy wasn't interested in anything she was carrying around. "Show me more free stuff."

A Michael Kors minidress was so neon bright that it nearly seared Santana's eyes. It was completely ridiculous, would look amazing with her dark hair, and she loved it. When he saw how she reacted, the PA said something into his headset and pushed the hangers around on her clothing rack to make more room. Score. More pierces were coming at her from that Kors collection, then.

All too soon they were out of the land of free designer clothing and facing university exams. "It hardly feels real," Quinn said as they walked together across the urban campus of NYU. A camera man followed close behind. The crew members weren't allowed in the classrooms, so they tried to get plenty of footage of the girls outside. "The free clothes, the fame, the money. And we're still helping people."

"We're helping so many people," Santana said. "Do you even know what kind of fan mail I get?" Girls told her that they'd finally realized that they were attracted to other girls after they'd seen her say it loud and proud on their favorite show. They watched her be in magazines and go to a great school, with a girlfriend she loved, and realized they could have all those things, too.

They probably couldn't be in magazines, because Santana knew she had better bone structure than basically everyone, but the rest of what they said really touched her heart.

"Save it for the classroom, ladies," said an assistant walking with the cameras.

Santana and Quinn exchanged a look. Their conversation apparently wasn't usable, and so they needed to hold one that would help fill the episode. The assistant either didn't know or care that they didn't actually share any classes. "So," Santana gamely said, neatly pivoting to a topic she knew the producers craved: Quinn and romance. "Have you replied to lover boy's letters, yet?"

"I'm thinking of returning them," Quinn muttered. "You'd think he'd take 'a complete lack of response' as enough of a sign."

"If he'd left a phone message, sure," Santana said. Her senses were attuned for genuine creeps, but this felt like a pure culture clash. Quinn's would-be beau was in the dark and would likely remain there until she thumped him over the head. Physically. With a rock. "Or if he'd sent a text message. Or if he'd at least made it to the Twentieth Century and mailed you an actual envelope."

"Or used email, or a Facebook message, I know." Quinn grimaced. Drawing to a halt, she turned toward the north and the far-off skyscrapers of Midtown. 

"And instead," Santana said, with a meaningful look toward the cameras, "the building super is yelling at us because those giant birds keep pecking at the windows until we let them inside." Seriously, who used _ravens_ to send love letters? It was like they were living inside the freaking Game of Thrones. "Maybe you should just go on a date with him."

"No," Quinn said. "I'm not required to give him what he wants just to soothe his ego."

"Soothe, nothing: it'd be hilarious." Santana sighed. "Fine. I'm just saying, you're probably going to have to be blunt with him before he understands that this isn't how we do things here. Otherwise, he's going to start... I don't know. Sacrificing cows to get your attention." That was what old-timey people did, right? They sacrificed animals.

"Rachel just had to invite me to that stupid party with Thor," Quinn grumbled.

* * *

"You really should have asked Sam," Quinn had told Rachel some months earlier when she'd left the karaoke stage, breathless. "He's going to be so upset that he missed all of this."

Behind Rachel, Steve Rogers took the stage, looking shy and uncertain. His unease lingered until he nodded to the two people smiling encouragingly up at him, and Tina and Kurt joined him onstage for a sweet, light version of Don't Get Around Much Anymore. 

"Maybe I should have," Rachel agreed, scanning the party she'd arranged. But she didn't sound serious about that, not yet. Getting all the Avengers into one room was apparently a dicey prospect on its own. For a group that regularly saved the world, they often seemed more concerned about measuring their egos. Rachel asking to use some of the Tower's copious extra space to host all her friends, and adding in her co-workers so they wouldn't be offended, was a downright powder keg. She hadn't wanted to invite a defenseless human friend to a room full of superpowers, not until they knew it would work out safely.

Not that there might be many more of these events, Quinn thought. Rachel had stated her plans for this party months earlier, and it had taken this long until everyone's schedules aligned.

"I can't believe you know all the songs I know," Steve said to his songmates in the break between numbers. Captain America had been roused from a deep freeze lasting decades and was still ignorant of almost anything in-between then and now. Rachel had once mentioned that she sometimes found it difficult to hold conversations when she couldn't easily reference anything after World War II.

"We know all the songs," Kurt said back proudly.

"All of them," Tina agreed.

"My voice is rested by now," Rachel began to offer, and Quinn led her away from the stage.

"No," Quinn said. 

"But I'm ready to sing again."

"Give other people a chance. Here. Talk to Artie." Having deposited Rachel in front of Artie, Quinn gave his new, high-speed chair an approving look before she wandered on through the crowd. Quinn was used to parties by that point, and seldom did she spend time with 'heroes' rather than 'attractive college students.' She wanted to ask the Avengers about fighting supervillains while she had the opportunity.

Catching sight of a particularly broad-shouldered Avenger, Quinn angled herself toward him. Thor was exactly like she'd imagined from his modern and mythological reputations: very tall, extraordinarily Scandinavian, and about as dense as Finn Hudson. "Fair maiden," he said to her as she approached. He'd called just about everyone there a 'fair maiden.'

"I was hoping I could ask you about controlling elemental powers," Quinn said.

"Ah," he said, brightening. "You wish to draw upon my knowledge as a god."

"You're not a god," Quinn corrected. There was only one, after all, and Thor was certainly not Him.

"I am," he said very helpfully. "If you wish, I can share tales of my time in Asgard, and sing the victory songs of my triumphs over the World Serpent Jörmungandr." Before he could praise himself any further, Thor frowned in confusion and looked at something over Quinn's shoulder. She turned to see Puck onstage, rakish in a tilted fedora, singing The Way You Look Tonight to an enraptured Kurt. "Your berserker appears confused beneath a haze of your serviceable ale," Thor said. "I should assist him."

"Huh?" Quinn asked.

"He is drunkenly directing his song to another man," Thor said. "And so I will aid him!"

Right. The Norse gods were apparently not big on LGBTQ awareness. "That's really not necessary."

"But—"

"Not. Necessary."

Thor frowned at her again right before a wall exploded. As the dust settled, everyone spun to see Bruce Banner gone, replaced with the raging green form of the Hulk. Finn scrambled away from him, barely secure behind his flickering telekinetic shield. "I don't know what I said," Finn squeaked, "but I think it made him angry!"

"HULK SMASH!"

"Finn," Quinn grumbled and rushed in to help. Puck tried to position himself as a roadblock to the raging Hulk. Fortunately, a line of Rachel's explosions right beside his head made Puck instinctively fling himself out of harm's way. He'd overestimated himself in that matchup and was the only person who didn't seem to know it.

Refreshment tables crumpled like napkins and another wall collapsed into a haze of dust. "Do not set him on fire," Tony Stark said when he saw Santana about to lob a fireball. "He'll catch the carpet on fire, and then my building is dealing with smoke damage. It's impossible to clean."

It was a very good thing they hadn't invited Sam, Quinn thought with a sigh. At least Artie's chair had zipped him out of harm's way. Beside her, Thor aimed lightning bolts to little avail. Quinn raised her hands and a frozen lake spread below the Hulk's feet. He took a step, flailed, and landed hard. He'd only grown angrier.

The lights flickered and Tina dropped the severed cord she'd been holding. Power crackled around her hands. "Keep him down until I calm him down, Quinn?" she asked.

Quinn nodded and refreshed her ice sheet as the Hulk's flailing attempts cracked it. Tina's soothing mental energies began to flow into the behemoth, replacing his rage with pleasure and contentment, and he stilled and shrank back into the form of Bruce Banner. A sigh of relief escaped Quinn before she joined everyone else in glaring at Finn.

"I really don't know what I said to piss him off," Finn protested.

"My brother, everyone," Kurt said proudly. "The telepath."

"That was very impressive," Thor said, and Quinn realized he was talking to her. His eyes were wide and bright. "You command the very forces of winter themselves. You stood against a raging foe like Skadi the huntress come to earth."

"Thanks," Quinn said.

Thor's smile grew. "Are you Skadi, by any chance? Our people's magic is great. You could be appearing to me in a different form, sent to assist me in my work in this realm."

"No," Quinn said. "I'm really just Quinn Fabray. I do not call myself a god. I just have regular old powers given to me by a magical cube, that's all."

From the way his ridiculous smile somehow grew even further, that had probably been the wrong thing to say.

Three days later, the first raven arrived.

* * *

Santana smirked at the memories of that party. NBC had been beyond pissed that they hadn't gotten it on camera, but convincing Quinn to start dating one of the featured members of the Avengers would soothe their deep and greedy pain.

"I didn't know that stupid cube thing came from his world," Quinn sighed. "Us getting our powers from it does not mean I'm destined to fall in love with that enormous bearded lug. We do not have a connection." Her hand stabbed the air. "Fine. Fine! I'll just call him and tell him off. I'm annoyed he's even making me do that much."

"Remember the cube's description," Santana sing-songed, enjoying herself quite thoroughly at Quinn's expense. "We were shot full of pure potential. Maybe you two have the potential to breed dozens and dozens of pretty, stormcalling, extremely pale demigod babies."

"He's not a god!" Quinn said and spun around to the cameras. "Not a god." They had to stop the cameras to remind her not to speak directly into them. After a few minutes' distraction, after they'd continued across campus to steady her mood, the cameras came back on.

Santana was deep in her thoughts when Quinn got up on her tiptoes to wave at two girls passing by. They waved back. Abby's father had given her curly hair and full features and her mother had passed on red freckles. Lil's braids were so neon-colorful that Santana suspected they had to be plastic from roots to tips. The girls had been in Quinn's freshman history class and Santana knew she'd gotten to like them last year. 

The network wasn't thrilled. Even so, Quinn wanted to make friends at school and so she'd started spending time with them, despite NBC's preference that their two stars be inseparable. They were usually sick of each other by the end of a filming day, and besides, Santana would rather spend time with Brittany. She and Quinn were friends, yes, but they were only best, 'never ever get sick of each other' friends for the camera.

"Abby talked to me about women's studies," Quinn said as they set off walking again. Santana checked her schedule on her phone as they moved. The network had scheduled some sort of party that night. This season, they were practically going to be socialites. "It's just the start of sophomore year. I could change majors. What?" she asked when Santana made a face at her.

"Seriously? Women's studies?"

Quinn looked at her sidelong. "I'd think you of all people would appreciate lectures about the kyriarchy."

"What?" Santana's nose wrinkled up further. "That's not a thing."

"Yes it is. Abby told me all about it."

"Okay, whatever, I don't care?" Santana shrugged. "It'd be one hundred percent retarded for you to change from psychology."

"Don't use that word." Quinn frowned. "Why is it so important that I stick with psychology?"

"Because that is how you're going to understand supervillains' big evil plans." Santana hooked a thumb under her collar. Rather than a bra strap, part of her costume was beneath her clothes. "Remember, we save people?"

"Fine. And seriously, don't use that word."

Santana let her strap snap back into place. "Fine." She checked her phone again and saw that it was nearly time for her logic class. They each only had one class that day, but both were facing tests and couldn't be late. On days when she didn't have exams, though, she'd skip if millions of people wouldn't judge her for it. "Look, I'll catch you after, all right?" 

By the end of her exam, Santana was ready to set her Scantron sheet on fire. All those penciled-in bubbles were starting to look the same and she felt sure that she was accidentally one line off. When she got to the last question and was on the right number, it still took three re-reads until she was satisfied. Her professor brooked no argument that they'd screwed up filling in their bubbles. It was a class in logic. They shouldn't make easy mistakes.

"I hate school," Quinn said when they reunited for a few establishing shots on a building's steps.

"Tough test?"

"I wish I was the one who lights things on fire," Quinn said.

Santana grinned. "Look, I'm taking off. Heading to the Hamptons this weekend means that I need to get studying done ASAP."

"Sure," Quinn said. "I've got a group with Abby and Lil, anyway."

"You need better taste in friends," Santana said as she shouldered her bag. She had no problem with Abby, but those neon braids of Lil's looked like they'd smell like wet Barbie hair. 

"I just think they're so interesting," Quinn said. "Even when I lived in New York before, it was a dull neighborhood. And then... Lima. I've just never met people like them before."

Santana shot her a peculiar glance. "Kool-aid hair and feminism? You _remember_ Tina, right?" They hadn't seen anyone from that adorable little investigative firm since Rachel's karaoke party, and only ran into Rachel herself when the Avengers tried to muscle in on their territory. (The Avengers usually won, which was the worst part.) Kurt and Puck were totally off the map, even though Puck was apparently back in town. Weirdly, she'd actually spent time around Artie. The execs loved the particular diversity angle he brought, as opposed to Quinn's _iffy_ women's studies friends, and he'd jumped on the chance to show up in a handful of episodes as a future genius and billionaire. 

Santana had Brittany, of course. She wasn't friends with the classmates also angling for a future law degree, since everyone was so cutthroat, but she didn't mind. She won every new round of 'let's come up with witty insults to demonstrate how clever we are and how well we're going to do on our LSATs.' _And_ they knew she was a famous superhero, just to make things worse for them.

It really didn't hurt that much that she only saw her old friends and acquaintances on rare occasions. Plus, she'd known it was happening. Quinn looked stunned at the truth. "You're right," Quinn said slowly. "I totally forgot Tina. They're a lot like her, actually. I just...."

"It's just been two and a half years." Had it really been that long since they'd all shared regular classes? Wow.

Quinn was quiet for a while as they walked down the sidewalk. "You're probably right."

"Duh, I'm always right. About what?"

"Sticking with psychology. I do plan to do this hero thing for as long as I can, after all. Psychology makes sense."

"Yeah," Santana agreed. Quinn needed to stick with what supported her heroic career, not her interest of the month. They were nationally famous superheroes. Even outside of the city limits, they still rescued people every time they put their faces in the media: Quinn, the independent girl who didn't apologize for putting her own needs first. Santana, the proud and out lesbian whose girlfriend was a hero, too. They kicked butt, took names, and had been insulted by no less than seventeen conservative Congressmen who wanted to shore up their troglodyte credentials. It was great.

"Wait," Quinn said. Her brow furrowed as she looked at her phone. 

"Wait what?" Santana asked. Okay, maybe she would put off studying, but that didn't mean she wanted to hang around campus when she could busy her mouth with Thai takeout or the space between Brittany's legs. Probably takeout. She'd skipped breakfast.

Quinn showed Santana her phone and Santana blinked. In unison they turned south, toward Spring Street. Dozens of news stories reported that a group of criminals had held a Starbucks’ customers hostage after a simple robbery went bad. Only a couple of blocks away, it had all been resolved during their exams.

Two of the customers were in the hospital. One was critical.

Rounding on the nearest cameraman, Quinn shoved the phone at him. "Why didn't someone come and get us?"

Flustered, he grabbed his own phone and called the producer, and then offered it to the duo. "You had your education to worry about," their producer said smoothly. "And these were nobodies. This is what the NYPD gets paid for, when they actually get somewhere before a hero swoops in."

"Two people might die," Santana said, "and we could have stopped those assholes before it happened."

"And as I was about to say, a hero did swoop in! She worked with the police, everything was fine."

"Then why are two people ready to die?" Quinn demanded.

"This city is crawling with heroes, Quinn, and they're all trying to make a name for themselves. If whoever it was couldn't handle it, _and_ the police couldn't handle it, well... those people should just count themselves lucky that only two of them got hurt. Because it sounds like those crooks were some serious bad guys. You can't save everyone."

"But we could have done better," Santana said. They didn't have any proof of that, true, but Santana just _knew_.

"Ladies, you still get called for the big names, right? Otherwise, just focus on your school and let some of the other masks handle the little stuff. Remember last season? Sometimes, when you headed off to face someone in the minor leagues, you'd already have competition when you got there. Stick to the majors. Then we're not wasting anyone's time, including yours. Got it?"

Santana and Quinn looked unhappily at each other.

"If you'd run over, do you really think you would have taken over smoothly from that upstart? Or would have you all just screwed things up more as you fought for control? Three's a crowd, after all. You know what it's like when you butt heads with an Avenger."

"I suppose," Quinn said.

"Right. Well, have fun this evening, ladies. We'll get a crew for both of you. And just remember: the Hamptons this weekend! It'll be great. Promise."

"Yeah," Santana said. "Thanks." She clicked the phone off and handed it mutely back to the cameraman, who holstered it on his belt. "Right," she finally said after staring south, wondering just where those people had been shot. "I'm going home."

"And I'm going to the coffee...." Quinn trailed off, swallowed, and said nothing else.

"We did take down that guy killing people with a touch," Santana said when they'd stood there for a beat too long in uncomfortable silence. It'd been a hell of a season opener.

"We did."

Leaving Quinn to join her study group, Santana strode away in a thoughtful haze. She nodded at passing fans without being wholly aware of them, smiled instinctively whenever her name was called, and somehow wound up at a busy corner with her hand raised for a cab. 

The one that pulled over for Santana had her smiling face plastered above its roof, right next to her weekly airing schedule.


	3. The Hourglass on the Table

"I have something for you," Kurt said on a chilly day in October, and fished through the bag leaning against his lunchtime seat.

Puck took the chance to shove a handful of french fries into his mouth. That bag held a gun, Puck knew, and probably an emergency sewing kit. The part of Puck labeled 'perpetual badass' would rather have the gun for a gift. The part of him keeping track of every dime from his paychecks wouldn't mind a way to repair his clothes. Kurt had taught him some basics (despite Puck's initial protests), and it was useful stuff.

"Here," Kurt said and Puck hurriedly wiped grease and salt from his fingers. He accepted the small piece of metal with confusion. It looked like a credit card made from stainless steel.

"Thanks," Puck said and turned it over. It was blank. He flipped back to the side with one black arrow along an edge.

"They processed your information," Kurt said.

It was the keycard for Kurt's apartment, Puck realized. If they'd given him a card, it meant that he was authorized for every single scanner leading up to that door. He could go to Kurt's. No longer would their sole spot of privacy be Puck's studio near the river. Even if Puck made sure to clean it once a week, he could tell that it never met Kurt's standards. At some level, he always seemed to be on the lookout for bedbugs or roaches.

Still, they'd kissed and tasted each other's skin. There'd been short, needy jerks against each other, and hands roaming under shirts. They hadn't abandoned their clothes, though, and they definitely hadn't come close to wrapping anything for their protection.

Maybe Kurt wasn't ready to go all the way. They'd used to give their bodies to each other freely, but it had been a long time since then, with a lot of history between them. Puck kept telling himself not to push. A good guy wouldn't push, and it was worth a hundred sessions with his hand if Kurt took that final step on his own.

On the other hand, Kurt might just not want to get down and dirty in a tiny studio apartment that always seemed to have a stray sock on the bed, no matter how many times Puck checked for them. Puck had never seen Kurt's apartment, but he was sure it was spotless. Fancy artwork probably hung on the walls. It must look exactly like how Kurt wanted, and that would put him completely at ease. Right?

Puck was trying to be a good guy. He was proud of himself for mostly managing it, but at the end of the day he still had balls. They'd already gone through the awkward waiting stage once at fifteen and had taken off full speed once they crossed that boundary. Moving their makeout sessions to Kurt's had to make Kurt more receptive. That might lead to Kurt stepping on the accelerator again.

His imagination lit up like camera flashes: Kurt, pale and bare, crooking a finger at Puck from where he lay on his bed. He looked nearly pure white against deep purple sheets. Puck clamped down so hard against the groan in his throat that he nearly broke a molar. Below the table, he grew half-hard inside his jeans.

"I'm not promising anything with that key," Kurt said. His smile was tiny, like he knew Puck's secret. But then, he always knew secrets. He could be intimidating and intriguing just with a look. When they'd been apart, separated by stolen memories and Puck's worst nature, Puck felt like Kurt was constantly judging him. Now, every minute spent together was another chance to figure out some tiny part of Kurt Hummel.

Puck frowned and tilted his head. Kurt looked worried at that reaction until Puck asked, "Why'd you keep your new name? Hummel?" Kurt had spent fifteen years of his life as Kurt Hutton. He'd shared that name with his only living blood relative, but Finn had kept his new name, too. At Kurt's confusion, he said, "Uh, asking that question after what you said makes sense if you're in my head."

"I'm only psychic for illusions," Kurt reminded him. Sobering, he considered what Puck had asked. "I love my dad. On some level, rejecting his name feels like I'd be rejecting him. I'm sure Finn feels the same with Carole, even though Hudson was never her real name, either. It's still the name they had together. And also...." Kurt paused, and the space between his brows creased. "Kurt Hutton was fragile. Maybe it was just a natural part of getting older, or maybe it was everything I went through in Ohio, but I feel like a sword that got tempered."

Puck fought back a smile at the comparison. Kurt probably had no idea just how much of a weapons nut he'd turned into.

"Kurt Hummel got back all that information about Kurt Hutton, but it was still Kurt Hummel who took all of it and became an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.," Kurt said. "So I'm still him. Thank you very much for all those memories, boy I used to be."

"Makes sense," Puck said. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Of course," Kurt said. The shifting sun caught Kurt's face and his eyes were like stained glass. Damn. Puck knew that he was toting around rockin' guns and that he'd lucked out in the face department like few others, but he wondered if Kurt ever looked at him and felt like he'd taken a sledgehammer to the chest, too. When Puck stared a beat too long, Kurt leaned closer and whispered, "It helps if you actually ask me, you know." His thumb traced patterns on Puck's hand.

"How did you get everything figured out so soon?"

Kurt blinked, clearly not expecting that question, and frowned in mild confusion.

"You've got the great place, the big career... and I just feel like I'm fucking around and waiting to figure out what I should do next." Puck shrugged. "I know you're smarter than me—"

"Puck, you're better than you give yourself credit for," Kurt said, and traced Puck's hand again. "We've been through this."

Fine, Puck wasn't dumb. Kurt was still smarter than him. "I hear you talk about pay grades and security systems and you sound like you're pushing thirty." At Kurt's instant offense, Puck grinned and added, "You look your age, don't worry." Kurt _really_ looked his age, Puck thought with appreciation as he studied the way the shoulders of Kurt's jacket stretched. This definitely wasn't the gently rounded boy he'd first kissed.

"I assume you have a point," Kurt said. He still sounded grumpy over being labeled thirty years old in any way.

Great, Kurt was in a mood. That was always fun. Some things didn't change even when Kurt had shaved down his waist and bulked up his arms. "Do I just keep beating up assholes around the docks?" Puck asked.

Kurt looked startled.

"Criminals," Puck said. "After they actually commit crimes. It's not like I'd just smack a guy down because he looked at me funny."

"I'd certainly hope not."

"I've dumped some people at the police station for arson, mugging, and...." Puck swallowed and he remembered the worst scene he'd found. For one terrified, resigned second, that stripped and bruised kid thought Puck was there to join his rapists. Throwing those men through the police station doors, rather than just ripping off their heads, was one of the hardest things Puck had ever done. He'd originally thought of heroics as stopping supervillains in ridiculous costumes, only to be reminded of how many everyday villains prowled his city. "And, uh, other stuff," Puck finished.

"You can talk to me about that 'other stuff' if you want," Kurt said.

Yeah. Puck supposed he could. After spending two years on the road, it was too easy to retreat inside his shell. "They were raping a kid," he said bluntly. "I wanted to kill them, but I didn't."

Kurt met Puck's eyes and held his gaze. Then he nodded once. On some level he'd expected Kurt to be horrified. He shouldn't have just accepted what Puck had seen, or that Puck had considered killing those men before he reined himself in. But.... Puck frowned and asked carefully, just above a whisper, "Have you killed anyone?"

"I've killed lots of things," Kurt said.

"A person, though?"

Kurt looked at the table. "Yes, once. So far." There would be more deaths, he clearly knew, and each one would weigh on him. He exhaled. When he looked up he was smiling again. "Right, we're talking about your future. Well, you could stick with that route and be an independent hero. Brittany's doing pretty well with that by this point."

"Yeah, and Brittany is dating a TV star. She doesn't have to worry about making rent."

"Oh. Do you want money?" Kurt asked and leaned again for his bag.

"I don't want your money," Puck said, perhaps a bit snappishly. Kurt's eyebrow arced as he sat back up, but he said nothing.

"So there's that," Kurt continued after a pause. "Or you could join a team or the government, be some billionaire's personal bodyguard... there are lots of options." He stole a fry off Puck's plate and grinned as he ate it. "Or just be a guitar-strumming rock star, and all of the groupies will be left disappointed when you turn them down every night."

"I think you're required to sleep with groupies," Puck said. "It's pretty much the law." Kurt glared at him and Puck laughed. "You picked it!"

"Play along!" Kurt demanded and bopped him on the hand with another french fry. "You'll write songs about me and disappoint your legions of fans. Right?"

"How hot are these groupies, though?"

"You're a lot less funny than you think you are," Kurt grumbled. "This is what I get for trying to help you. I...." His pupils constricted to pinpricks as he looked at the window behind Puck. One hand whipped up his jacket and retrieved a pistol. The other darted into his bag and grabbed the gun there. Double-wielding his weapons, he leapt to his feet and shouted, "Everyone, under your table!"

A few people moved, but most only stared in shock at the young man waving guns near their heads. Puck saw a particularly obnoxious reaction on a few faces: surprise at Kurt's voice, which didn't match their image of an armed gunman. Puck leapt to his feet, too. "You heard him," he bellowed. "Move! He's saving your asses!"

That time, people moved. Kurt shot him a look that was half gratitude, half resignation, before turning his attention back to the window and opening fire. The first shot shattered the glass. Patrons screamed and held their coats over their heads. The next rounds struck their target: a walking lump that looked like the La Brea Tar Pits oozing down the street. Under its slimy coating, it was solid and strong. It was probably a failed lab experiment, Puck thought tensely as he took in the trail of injured people it had left behind. It was sadistic or mad with pain, but either way it was lethal.

The shuffling mass jerked as it was peppered with hot lead, but didn't die.

"Didn't bring my swords," Kurt said as he leaned over to the next table. They'd ordered steak.

"Yeah, they'd kind of stand out during lunch," Puck agreed. He shoved his sleeves up to his elbows and bolted through the broken window toward their foe. His first punch broke something that didn't quite feel like bone and their enemy snarled back.

Kurt leapt after Puck with a matching set of steak knives in hand. One shot through the air and caught their foe right in his slimy eye. By the time he'd pulled it free, gooey black tar steaming from the wound, Kurt's other knife slid through his throat.

Puck ducked into place like they'd practiced it. The flailing monster hit him, not Kurt, and Puck took the blow that would bruise him but would have shattered Kurt's ribcage. He caught one slippery arm and ripped it from its socket, and then the other. The monster stopped snarling only when Puck had dismembered it completely and Kurt sliced its neck again. Tar pooled around their feet.

It had all played out in less than a minute, Puck thought as his heart pounded. He grinned like a fool and became slowly aware of the audience gawking at them from inside the restaurant and along the street.

"Don't worry, I'm with the government," Kurt said and delicately picked his way back into the restaurant to retrieve his bag. After a second's thought, he left a few bills on the table to cover their meal. He turned back to the shattered window, frowned, and laid down more money.

"Like the IRS?" someone asked. Her eyes were wide and her brain seemed to be sputtering along in first gear. Salad dressing covered the front of her shirt.

"That's exactly right," Kurt said. He gestured at the fallen enemy with his gun. "That was an audit. Remember not to take any fake deductions." With a chipper nod, he walked over broken glass and out the window.

"And you call me a jerk," Puck chortled as they stood over the corpse and waited for a clean-up unit to arrive. He was glad he'd accepted Kurt's wheedling offer to send a car for lunch. That was fun.

"What?" Kurt asked, grinning. "It's the truth, you should file your taxes properly. Oh, like I'm really going to tell them what agency I'm with." His good mood fell away and Kurt rested his hand very lightly on Puck's chest. "Are you hurt?"

He'd be sore, but no worse than football hits he'd taken during the years spent with their powers suppressed. "I'll be fine," Puck said.

"Are you really sure?" Kurt asked. His hand laid a bit more flat against Puck.

What, like Noah Puckerman wasn't a badass? "Look, are you telling me you don't think I can—" Puck's offense, only halfway for show, cut off when Kurt lunged forward. He caught Puck's mouth hungrily and pressed so close against him that Puck did feel a flash of pain. Kurt was practically _climbing_ him, Puck saw with wonder, and right in the middle of Sixth Avenue. That flash of pain didn't matter at all.

"We've never fought like that before," Kurt said when they broke apart. Puck's head was craned up to look at Kurt, and his arms had instinctively supported his boy as Kurt crawled up him. "Just us. It was kind of fun."

Puck looked down at where Kurt's legs were wrapped around him and smirked. "Kind of, huh?" Kurt was just as excited as Puck had been under the table in the restaurant. He liked fighting. Good to know.

"Everyone's staring at us," Kurt said.

"They might be staring at the big slimy corpse."

"Or that." Kurt swallowed. When he began to slither down, Puck let him loose. "Um, if you wanted, maybe you could come by my place tonight?"

Damn. Now he didn't have a table to hide him, Puck thought as he felt his jeans tighten again. They were both outing themselves as horny adrenaline junkies in the middle of Midtown. They'd just saved all the people staring at them, though, so they should be able to walk down Sixth with their cocks out if they wanted to. Still, Kurt shouldn't draw any more attention to himself. He was a big fancy secret agent, after all. Puck tugged him close, so no one would notice that either of them was doing anything more than hugging the other. "I'll be there at seven."

"Eight," Kurt said. "I want to take a shower first."

He wanted to take a shower first, Puck thought giddily. Even if Puck weren't counting on anything, he could hope, and right then he could kiss that slimy, gooey tar monster right on its dead, gooey mouth.

* * *

Oh no, Finn thought as he stared in horror at his cell phone. A new text message glared back at him.

This was his own personal Armageddon.

He lunged for his contacts menu and found Carole's name. Maybe Finn should have been embarrassed to be calling his parents to rescue him at twenty years old, but he was desperate. "Hi, it's me. Can you come by the office on your way home?" he asked Carole. "There's still a toothbrush and stuff at the house, right? Cool, thanks." He hung up and saw three amused faces. "Shut up."

"Do you miss your mommy, Finn?" Tina asked sweetly.

"This doesn't seem fair," Mercedes sighed as she tried to get everything to balance on an Excel spreadsheet. "I wish I could see my family whenever I wanted."

Yes, it was convenient that Carole worked every day in Manhattan, and that she drove her own car to a S.H.I.E.L.D. garage. Whenever Finn wanted to see his parents, he could ask her to make a detour on her way home. The reason why he'd made this call was anything but pleasant, though. "Shut up," Finn said again.

"I don't get it," Mike said. He seemed less judgmental, at least, but was clearly confused.

"Puck got authorized for our building," Finn said. They stared blankly back. "He and Kurt are doing well. Really well. And Puck is coming by. Tonight."

"Oh," Mike said when he caught on, and shrugged. "Just tell him to lock his door. That's what I do."

"After Sam walked in on us once," Tina added meaningfully. "He actually fell over trying to back away."

"That won't help," Finn groaned. Kurt clearly hadn't thought through everything his casual text implied.

"Maybe it's different when it's family," Mike allowed.

"Or is that it's two guys?" Mercedes asked suspiciously. "Finn...."

"No! God. It's." He paced back and forth. "When Kurt feels something really intense, and he's right there, then I... also...." Unwilling to finish, Finn trailed off, gestured at his head, and hoped they would make the right logical leap: when Kurt's emotions surged too high, they battered down Finn's shields and made him feel the same way.

From the way his friends burst out laughing, they seemed to have guessed correctly.

"And so," Finn said tightly, "I'm going out to Long Island tonight. I might be late coming in tomorrow." They'd better be fine with that, because he was not about to walk in the next morning knowing what it felt like to fuck Puck. Or be fucked by... why was he thinking about that, Finn wondered, and wanted to cry. The continuing giggles from his friends didn't help.

Finn spent the afternoon thinking with determination about anything besides Kurt and Puck. He tried to make sense of papers a client had given them, but soon gave up and started making calls around town to clarify nearly everything. Distracted, he found it a difficult task. "Hey," Finn said mournfully when he fell into his emotional safety net: calling Rachel.

"Oh, Finn," Rachel said with a tone that said that she couldn't talk.

Sure enough, someone grabbed her phone from her. "As much as I do enjoy a healthy midday round of phone sex, Brain Boy, we're a little busy at the moment," said Tony Stark. "Call your girlfriend back when her ringtone won't interrupt a war room briefing."

Fine. _Fine._ Finn disappeared up the stairs and soon returned with a bag from a nearby bodega. "Twinkies, Coke, and Doritos," Mike recited as Finn set them on his desk. "Wow. There's a coping mechanism."

"I bet he's still thinking about what it'd be like to be on the other side of that condo wall," Tina said to Mercedes.

"I'm kind of thinking about it," Mercedes admitted.

Maybe he should get his own place, Finn thought grumpily as he shoved an entire Twinkie into his mouth. He'd do it, even if it would take the rent money for their office. It'd serve these guys right.

"Was a Twinkie really the right choice today?" Tina asked sweetly.

Finn looked at the remaining Twinkie in its package. The elongated shape around its cream filling bored into his eyes. "I hate you," he mumbled through the half-chewed sponge cake still in his mouth. Finn pitched the package at Tina and she happily began snacking. The rest of the day passed in a haze of irritation over being driven out of his own home by a completely reasonable desire not to feel his brother's orgasms as his own. Kurt's dreams were awkward enough. If Finn stayed there tonight, he'd never be able to meet Puck's face again.

"Hey, sweetie," Carole said as Finn hopped into her car at the end of the day, fleeing his workplace like a burning ship. She waved at his co-workers. They returned the greeting far too cheerfully as she inched back into traffic. "Is everything okay? You sounded like you were going to scream if you didn't get out of the city today."

"It's fine," Finn said, but she clearly wanted more of an explanation. "It's just that Puck's coming over tonight and, um. Um." He really should have lied, Finn thought belatedly. That wasn't something to share with your mother.

"Oh," Carole said. They drove a few blocks in awkward silence. "I'm surprised you just didn't call Rachel and ask for a room in the Tower tonight," she finally said. Humor sounded to bubble just under the surface. 

Despite all the craziness that Finn had to deal with whenever he got near the Avengers, she was right: doing that would have been easier than telling his mother about how one of her sons would be getting down and dirty. He really should have gone for the Tower room. Damn. He could have tried calling Rachel later in the day. "I'll, um, remember that," Finn said sheepishly.

"Just don't tell Burt why you're over tonight, all right?" Carole continued. "He knows they made him feel a certain way about Puck, and he's mostly past it, but there's still this overall grumpiness that they're together. That implant hasn't quite worked its way out of his brain yet."

"Gotcha. I wanted a home cooked meal instead of takeout," Finn said. "That's the only reason I'm coming over. Yep."

"So I guess I'm cooking tonight," Carole said dryly. Finn grinned at her.

Halfway there, Burt called them. Carole put him on speaker. "Carole, swing by the Bakers' instead of going straight home, okay?"

"Um, hi?" Finn said. "I'm here. I'm staying over tonight. Can she drop me off, first?"

Burt barely hesitated. "That's great! Finn, come on over, too."

"But...." Finn began to say. He was tired and annoyed and just wanted to get off the road. He noticed Carole shaking her head at him and went quiet.

"We'll meet you there, Burt," Carole said. "Finn, trust me, you want to come with us. Burt, we're about twenty-five minutes away, so don't leave just yet." She had a long commute in to Manhattan. It gave them a bigger lawn and nicer house than they otherwise could have afforded.

"Okay," Finn sighed.

Half an hour later they pulled up behind Burt's truck, in front of what was presumably the Bakers' house. It was nice enough, Finn guessed, but he just didn't know why they were there. With a put-upon look, he let himself be escorted to their front door and wondered why Carole and Burt were grinning.

The answer presented itself as soon as they walked through the door. "They're all ready to take home," said a grandmotherly-looking woman. Finn stared in wonder at the herd of chubby, clumsy puppies who came barreling down the hall. "Do you remember which...?"

Burt chuckled and bent down. The puppies were a squirming mass of nearly identical bodies, but Burt neatly plucked the two brown labradors away from their sleek black siblings. "These were the two who came to say hello first," he explained as he handed one to Carole. It licked her chin. "When we stopped by a couple of weeks ago to meet them."

"Puppies," Finn said. He had the distinct feeling that he was grinning like an idiot.

It became his responsibility to sit in Carole's back seat and watch the puppies in their box. Finn took his job very seriously, and it felt like he barely blinked during the drive between the Bakers' house and their comfortable home in Bethpage. The puppies slept, mostly. "You didn't tell us you were getting them," Finn eventually said, not looking away from his charges.

"It's been lonely in the house," Carole said. "I suppose we shouldn't have gotten a place that size when you guys would be moving out only a year later. It's amazing how normal a big, happy house can feel after just a short time together. We keep thinking it's too quiet, now."

Had they gotten the dogs to replace them? He didn't know if he liked the sound of that. As Carole and Burt prepared dinner, raiding their fridge for chicken breasts, half-finished potato salad, and other elements of an outdoor meal, Finn began to get the puppies settled in. One gnawed wetly at his offered knuckle and Finn grinned and dove in for full-contact playtime.

Thankfully, Carole reminded him to wash his hands when he was called for dinner out on the deck. "It's too bad Kurt couldn't be here," Burt said as he speared a piece of chicken and put it on Finn's plate. "Could've been a nice family dinner. I know he's not huge on animals, but everyone likes puppies. Right?"

"He's busy tonight, Burt," Carole said, gathering her food to take inside. She hated bugs on her food. Burt and Finn would rather deal with the insects, though, and enjoy the last tolerable outdoor days of the year. "This was last minute on Finn's part."

"Kurt would have come if we'd told him it was a family dinner," Burt insisted and looked to Finn for confirmation. Finn tried to maintain a level face, to not tell at a glance at Kurt was busy with his boyfriend, and failed spectacularly at it.

"Oh." Burt said. "Guess that explains it. He'd rather see Puck. You know what? I liked Blaine."

"Kurt liked him, too," Finn said through a mouthful of potato salad.

"Chew, Finn," Carole said as she passed by with her food.

Burt frowned. "He's at Brown, right? Couldn't he transfer to Columbia? They're both Ivy League."

"I don't think it works like that, Burt," Carole said before she left them. She swatted away as bees as she went. That was part of suburbia that Finn didn't miss.

"It's not only Puck," Burt said. Finn held up his hands in surrender at his pointed tone. "I know they messed with my head about the kid, and I'm trying to get over that. I just don't like any of the guys Kurt's picked."

"There was only one other guy, really," Finn said, remembering Jack. 

"And I didn't like him," Burt said. "He was nearly thirty and Kurt was still a teenager!"

"Jack was ten years older," Finn said. It didn't sound as bad put like that, and he'd liked Jack. He'd showed Finn a lot of cool S.H.I.E.L.D. gadgets that Kurt wasn't interested in. Kurt only liked weapons, along with all of his Broadway songs and fancy clothes.

"Like I said! What was wrong with him, that he had to go after a kid? He couldn't find someone his own age?" Burt ripped off pieces of chicken. "And there were more guys. You can't tell me Kurt didn't see anyone between that guy leaving and Puck showing up again."

"He went on a few dates," Finn said and sucked chicken grease off his thumb. "They weren't serious."

"Yeah, there was probably something wrong with them, too, if Kurt didn't see them again," Burt said.

It wasn't a good idea, but Finn started laughing.

"Hey," Burt said, frowning. 

"Okay, I can't say this, 'cause you're my dad," Finn almost giggled, "but if one of my friends was acting like this?"

"Yeah?" Burt asked suspiciously.

"I'd ask them what crawled up their butt and died." Finn pointed at Burt when the expected reaction arose. "I didn't say that to you. I said I _would_ say it."

Burt still eyed him sidelong and Finn knew he was pushing things. When Burt relaxed, Finn did as well. "They'd talked about going to school in New York, is all," Burt said as he returned his attention to his food. "I don't know, I just like the idea of Kurt being with someone who... who didn't take off for two years."

"Puck lives in New York now," Finn said. "And Blaine didn't want to die, and he was probably gonna. Puck got punched through a wall last week and stood back up."

"Yeah, I guess," Burt said.

"It was a guy high on that MGH stuff," Finn said. "You know, gives people temporary powers and then makes them go all mean? Well, if Puck hadn't been there to smack the guy down, then he would have taken down another building with people in it."

"Another building?" Burt repeated, like it proved something. "So he let the guy knock down one first?"

Well, Burt was certainly set in his opinion. "Puck didn't get there until the guy'd already been ripping it apart. Come on."

"I thought he ran fast," Burt said. "What was the holdup?" Finn only looked at him in reply and regret washed over Burt. "Sorry," Burt said and sounded to mean it. "That was just all those old memories coming back in. I'm really trying to give him the benefit of the doubt."

"Really?" Finn asked.

"Yeah, mostly."

"Kurt loves him," Finn said.

Burt grumbled.

"I know he does." Finn tapped the side of his head. "Look, I was super weirded out when I picked up on what Puck felt, and I'm still not down with... stuff in my apartment, but he makes Kurt really happy. So I deal."

"Stuff, huh. Why are you here tonight, Finn?" Burt asked with a tired smile, but he clearly didn't want to know the answer.

"To see the puppies," Finn lied and neither of them questioned how he hadn't known puppies were coming until he was already on his way to Long Island. They focused on their meals again in silence.

With only bits left on his plate, Burt admitted, "I liked seeing him come home and just be so excited about having someone, finally. Telling me what he was doing that weekend, talking about going to the movies, whatever. I don't get that, now. We don't get it from either of you. We knew what we were in for when we said we'd be your parents, and that it wouldn't last that long before you were off on your own. I knew it'd be short. I still miss those years."

And Blaine was part of those years, right. "We'll call more," Finn promised.

Burt smiled, but they both clearly knew it wouldn't be the same. Behind them, the glass door slid open and two clumsy puppies scampered out to investigate their new yard. They both had brown hair, Finn was reminded in the seconds before a fur-covered missile landed in his lap, and he wondered if they'd really been the friendliest puppies in that litter or if they'd simply been more easily noticed.

Casually, Finn rolled the squirming puppy over and frowned. He didn't know about the other one, but this was a girl. Hmm. Hopefully they weren't seen as outright son replacements, then.

They played with the recharged puppies until the sun slanted low across neighbors' roofs. Finn felt like a kid again in a way that he never did in the _concrete jungles where dreams are made._ With that song running through his head and the memories of singing in an Ohio schoolyard, he carried the puppies back into the house as they passed out in his arms. 

"I heard you and Burt talking about Puck," Carole said when Finn was helping her place the puppies' new doghouse. Up on the deck, Burt dutifully cleaned his grill.

"Kurt loves him," Finn said quickly.

"I know. And Burt's really trying to like him. I know it doesn't seem that way, but he is. Some days he talks about how hard Puck must be working at the docks, and how that's an honest day's labor."

"Oh." Finn considered that. "Do you like him?"

"I like who he's working on being now," Carole said, careful and measured. When Finn seemed surprised at her low enthusiasm, she explained, "Finn, you've known him for years, and you remember all of it. The first time I ever met him was in that crazy year when I thought he'd gotten your girlfriend to cheat on you, and then all the lying and... it wasn't the best way to make a good impression."

It was a good thing that he was the telepath, not Kurt. Even the chance of Kurt accidentally reading those assessments of his boyfriend's worth would be too much. Finn shifted his weight uncomfortably. "But you seemed okay with them on the drive here, when I mentioned getting out of the apartment."

"I am okay. Puck is working hard, anyone can see that." Carole hesitated. "And it's good for Kurt to have someone tough around him."

Finn had the feeling that he was missing something.

"I worry about him," Carole continued after another heavy pause. "Burt worries, but not like I do. Burt's never seen a mission go wrong." She took a long, steadying breath and Finn remembered what he'd read from her memories years before: a dead husband and her slipping toward darkness to join him. Years later, she still couldn't ride in a helicopter. Even a hospital or police craft flying above her made her flinch. Finn wondered if those air traffic patterns played into why they lived so far away from the city, and why they'd decided that Carole would have the long drive to work instead of Burt. "If Puck's that tough, then Kurt probably won't ever have to see him...." She inhaled again. "Hurt. What happened to Blaine was bad enough."

"Puck's tough," Finn said with sympathy. He'd been worried that Rachel was dead, after all; he thought he had some tiny idea of what Carole had gone through with her first husband. "Really tough." There was no way that Puck would meet the same end as Craig Napier.

Carole smiled quickly. "I'm glad to hear it. And it also means that Puck can look out for him, too."

Finn frowned. "Wait, you're actually worried that Kurt could get hurt? But they have all the tech support, the tracking stuff...."

"I've seen a mission go wrong," she repeated. "It was planned out well, too."

Go wrong. _Wrong._ The word was suddenly terrifying. "What could happen?" Finn asked, even though he knew the answer and didn't want to hear it said out loud.

Carole reached over, found Finn's hand, and squeezed it. That was his answer, then. The air felt suddenly cold on his skin and Finn tried not to think of his own death. He never had told his parents how he'd fallen to the floor and nearly taken Kurt with him. Memories of dying loomed in the corners of his mind and he could usually avoid them except on the most restless nights.

"We should go inside," Carole said firmly. "Oh, Finn, don't worry. Think of Rachel's dads. They've been active agents for decades and they're both fine. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. Of course I worry: I'm a mom. You don't need to."

He nodded and followed her past Burt, through the sliding glass door. As she shut it, Finn jolted again. "So if Puck and Kurt look out for each other... who looks out for everyone else?"

"I don't understand," Carole said.

"Kurt could shoot anyone coming near Puck, I guess, and Puck could block anyone coming for Kurt. And now they're spending more time together." Finn frowned as he worked through everyone. "Mike and Tina are together every single day. But Quinn's alone a lot when she's not on camera, and Artie's totally on his own. Santana and Brittany spend lots of time apart, I think, because Brittany's doing her own hero thing. And Rachel... she already got taken once. Mom, I could have already lost her forever."

"You all need to be careful," Carole agreed. "Including you. It's not just dangerous for Rachel. Finn, you have no idea how much it would destroy me if you even got hurt. You _need_ to be careful. All right?"

He swallowed and tried to ignore the memories of hot lead against his skin. That probably hadn't been a sign. Right?

"I promise," he said and thought about all the time he spent alone.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to move into the Tower, after all.

* * *

"Congratulations," Kurt said as he poured two tall glasses of champagne. He carried them elegantly and placed one in Puck's hand with great panache. They'd both calmed down after afternoons alone at work, but perhaps it was time to become excited again. "To you and your honest day's pay."

Puck clinked his glass, careful not to shatter the pair when he did. Half his drink vanished in one gulp. 

He'd gotten his GED, with Kurt wheedling and cheering his way through the process. Driven by it and a need to pay his bills, Puck took an open position as a dockworker in Red Hook. Puck had no reason to hide his powers and the foreman knew a good thing when he saw it. Puck was in his own pay grade, apparently. Even the senior workers stopped complaining when Puck picked up a full pallet without a forklift. "So," Puck grinned, wiggling his glass half-full of alcohol. "Was this a fake ID or stealing from work?" 

"Work," Kurt giggled and sipped his champagne. "They don't mind. If you can put your life on the line, you can raid the conference room refrigerators. Although I do have nine different fake IDs." He also had a car service, an expense account, and a spectacular home overlooking Central Park. Sometimes Kurt couldn't believe how perfect his life was. He even had a gorgeous boyfriend with perfect arms and even better eyes.

Thankfully, Finn had picked up on how he and Puck might want some privacy that night. Kurt felt himself blush, deep and warm, and set his glass aside before the alcohol worsened his color.

He and Puck had been intimate before. More than once. More than... well, a lot. But it had been years since they'd been with each other, and neither of them had spoken of it since they'd reconnected. That restraint seemed almost unbelievable for Noah Puckerman, but Kurt could see that he was desperate to do everything right. That included letting Kurt set the timeline for anything physical.

Puck was home for good. The dust had settled. He had a studio near his work and a paycheck with direct deposit, and the two years of life on the road were behind him. When Kurt looked at him now, he saw a future ahead instead of the weight of their pasts. Anything bad between them had been polished away with each fresh day that Puck was willing to wait.

Puck finished his champagne. He looked like he might want more, but was happily distracted when Kurt climbed into his lap like a cat. "Nice," Puck said. "This is like, you know... before." _Before:_ a time when high school Kurt felt trapped inside an ill-fitting family and body. It came as a shock to Kurt how much more space he took up on top of Puck, now.

Fortunately, Puck was a slab of solid muscle below him. Even if Kurt felt momentarily gangly in a body that was usually under control, he'd never overwhelm a man who could lift tons. Instead of thinking more on his longer limbs, Kurt focused on cupping Puck's cheeks in his hands. Puck tasted like champagne when they kissed. Like a celebration. "I've missed you."

"I've been here for months," Puck said. Yes, he had. They'd walked down sidewalks with their hands entwined, and ground hungrily against each other in Puck's tiny studio. Some of that had felt almost desperate, like everything might fall apart again. But now Puck's paycheck had direct deposit, every single month. Maybe it was stupid, but that one tiny thing felt like an anchor that would keep them harbored.

"I've missed _you_ ," Kurt repeated gently and Puck's amused look softened. "So much of you."

What had his life been like on the road? Kurt tried not to let himself think on that too much. He liked few of the questions and fewer of the answers. Still, there was one point they had to cover. "Puck," Kurt said and pulled back just a few inches. His tone barely changed and their bodies were still touching, but a shiver rippled through the air. He was serious and Puck clearly knew it. "I need to ask you something."

"Is this like 'we need to talk?'" Puck asked warily.

"Only if you want it to be." Kurt looked down and lashes shielded his eyes. He knew Puck had been with other people, mostly women, during his time on the road. Puck had been on the move and lonely, and he didn't expect anything they weren't willing to offer. He was perhaps the most physical person that Kurt had ever met, and so a night with a shared bed would make him feel less alone in the world, even if he never saw that night's partner again.

Kurt wasn't like that. Kurt lived inside his thoughts and heart, not wrapped inside a pounding pulse and sweat-slick skin. It took a lot until he gave himself over to those feelings. Falling into bed with a stranger would make him feel more alone, not less. 

If he was going to make himself vulnerable again, he needed to know that they were both committed. He didn't understand Puck's behavior, tried not to judge him for it, and usually succeeded. But what was fine while apart, Kurt couldn't tolerate from his one chosen person. He needed to know. With a deep breath, Kurt continued. "I know you've been with other people. A... good number of other people."

"Yeah," Puck said. His eyes were deep in shadows, like he was waiting for the inevitable judgment to land.

"I don't think you _would_. It's not that. I just... I want to make sure I say that...." Kurt gave up and clasped their hands together. "If you're with me again, it can only be me. Because it would only be you."

Puck's flash of hurt faded quickly. It couldn't be easy to hear a reminder of any history of cheating, but the expression that replaced it was earnest. "I'm doing things right. I don't have to be the best, but I just don't want to screw up." He shook his head. "I'm _not_ going to screw up. I figured out what matters."

Kurt watched him hopefully but said nothing.

Leaning forward, Puck kissed him, slow and long. He caught Kurt's lip when he pulled back, and let it slip reluctantly away like a last handhold at the airport. "You're the best thing that's ever been in my life, and I'd screw up everything else in this whole stupid world before I'd hurt you. Not when I know who we are."

Kurt answered him with another kiss as part of his life, old and new, clicked into place.

This was how it was supposed to be. This was the relationship that had opened up his whole world when he'd been standing in the shadows. His arms snaked between Puck's neck and the couch cushions. Clothing felt suddenly like a prison, and he had to get rid of the bars between them.

"Bedroom," Kurt said. Puck stood effortlessly. Kurt wrapped his legs around Puck's waist and allowed himself to be carried. How did people do this smoothly without superpowers, Kurt wondered as he was lowered to the bed and felt as weightless as a cloud on the wind. How did they make it into bed without collapsing into a pile of limbs when they were slowed by both people having to walk? How did they mold their bodies so perfectly together when someone couldn't bend and twist like he could?

Puck's breath was hot against Kurt's neck. Shuddering, Kurt tilted his head to stretch the skin taut below Puck's mouth.

"You sure?" Puck asked against the curves and hollows of Kurt's collarbone. He might not have come over there expecting anything, and he wouldn't push, but he was clearly ready if Kurt was.

"I've missed you," Kurt said, resting his hand on Puck's temple. "All of you. Having you." _Having you._ The words sent a delightful frisson through him, and Kurt shuddered. Everything was all suddenly very real and very _now_ , and he was hyper-aware of every inch of his body. He could feel the soft cotton of his pillowcase behind his neck, his socks against his toes, where his cock strained against his trousers. It felt like he was fifteen again, with a body screaming in delighted need.

Puck's hand rested possessively over Kurt's groin. Kurt groaned and bucked up into the dull pressure. Puck was supposed to unzip him. Then he'd grab Kurt's cock, whether with his hand or mouth or between his legs, and stroke him until he was screaming in ecstasy. What Puck should be doing next was not a mystery, Kurt thought impatiently as a thin whine escaped him. Puck was smirking when Kurt opened his eyes, and massaged the bulge between his own legs with his other hand.

"I'm sure," Kurt said, just to be clear. His hips bucked up again for friction.

"You look so fucking good," Puck said.

_Emphasis on the 'fucking?'_ Kurt thought, though he couldn't bring himself to say so out loud. He'd never been good at dirty talk. He’d tried once, at fifteen, and had choked with embarrassment on the words before he ever got them out. It had seemed like a necessary part of sex, going by what little he knew of it from movies, but fortunately Puck didn’t seem to notice its absence.

Unaware of Kurt’s mental monologue, Puck continued. "You always looked so... innocent," he said, thumbing a narrow band of skin under where Kurt’s rumpled shirt had ridden high. "I felt like I was getting away with something. You still kinda do, but damn, you’re _hot._ "

That was sweet, but Kurt remembered how Puck had treated him like he'd break. Any awed discussion of how innocent he supposedly looked would do his heart good, but his heart had been given months to reconnect. It could wait now that it had been given its due. Right then, he wanted Puck to get a move on so that Kurt could be buried balls-deep in him.

"Drawer on the top," Kurt said, "near the window."

Puck obediently leaned over to investigate. Kurt took the chance to flip his shirt over his head. By the time Puck discovered the box of condoms inside, Kurt’s fingers were working down the waistband of his jeans. With the condoms in hand, Puck looked back up and grinned at the sight before him.

"Pull them off," Kurt said, elevating his hips. This might be the first night together since they’d reconnected, but it was hardly their first time ever. They didn't need to fumble their way through.

Puck obediently helped worm Kurt's tight jeans free. He hesitated at the boxer briefs until Kurt nodded, and pulled those down as well. When he saw the erection spring loose that would soon be inside him, Puck's began to strip with similar speed. _Right,_ Kurt thought as they rushed toward their physical reunion. _We've already covered romance for the night._

Next, Kurt leaned to the drawer below the one in which he’d stowed his condoms. Puck rested a hand on his bare ass as Kurt scooted there and back. His eyes opened wide with surprise, then pleasure at what he saw. "You really were ready for this."

"I like to prepare," Kurt said as he wrapped his hand around the small steel toy to warm it up. It was shaped like a rounded exclamation point, the parts joined with a narrow bridge, and would be so much easier to use than his fingers. He didn't remember everything about their old trysts, but he remembered that Puck's muscles were very strong. "And I knew you were getting authorized for the building before I gave you that card."

The idea of Kurt dutifully planning to fuck Puck into the mattress seemed to excite the man, and Puck flattened himself into position. His legs found sturdy, separated footholds as he watched Kurt apply lube to the warmed toy. _A slab of solid muscle_ , Kurt remembered as he turned to Puck, _and he's all mine._ He wasn't rippling like an oiled-up bodybuilder, with each vein standing proud. Instead, Puck looked gorgeous but wonderfully, believably real. The swells of muscles under his deeply tanned skin were for love and work and protection, not for show. Not any more.

"Ready," Puck said when he saw Kurt looking at him. His hips tilted up like Kurt's had.

"I love you," Kurt said, rich with wonder.

"Yeah," Puck said. Kurt would have been put off, but Puck looked almost incoherent with need as he bucked his hips upward again. Kurt scooted up between Puck's legs, slid one hand from knee to groin to let him know he was there, and nudged Puck's feet apart a bit further.

Lubricated like it was, the narrow, rounded point of the dildo slid easily into Puck, who groaned. It wasn't really stretching him yet, so it had to be psychological: the anticipation of them joining. Kurt was so hard that he could barely stand it, but there was no rushing Puck's body. This was the flip side to Puck's muscles being able to carry him so effortlessly.

"Soon," Kurt promised and stroked Puck's leg again. He was too tense with anticipation and need, and wasn't relaxing into this. That would make it all take longer. 

Nodding, Puck breathed in and out, and for a while he only made pleased sounds as Kurt loosened him. "You're pretty rich," Puck said as his hand swirled in circles on his chest. That nipple stood firm under his attention. "You could buy me a box for a present. "

A what? "I could buy you better things than a _box_ ," Kurt said and worked the dildo in and out. Puck was opening for him. "Good," Kurt mumbled to himself, and caught the sharp intake of air Puck made. He considered his words and smiled knowingly. "You're my good boy, aren't you?" There it was: his first foray into the most innocent 'dirty' talk imaginable.

Puck's eyes had never looked so black. 

"Good," Kurt said, leaving the toy in Puck and turning his attention elsewhere, "and sweet, and loyal." He leaned down to circle Puck's erect nipple with his tongue, and then kissed his way delicately over the faint bruises on Puck's chest. "You took these for my sake," he murmured against one of them. "You saved me."

Nostrils flaring, Puck adjusted his weight on the bed. His legs moved even further apart, with his cock a dark, weeping tower between them. 

_Isn’t this good to know_ , Kurt thought as he lavished worship on Puck’s body. Approval and heartfelt praise: the strongest aphrodisiac he could offer to this man that he loved. "I could be in the hospital," he said, even though he would have danced away from the blow well before it did any real damage. His hand splayed against Puck’s stomach, then slowly slid down until his fingertips brushed coarse hair. "I owe you my life."

"Kurt," Puck said.

"My hero," Kurt added.

Puck snorted like a bull. "In. Get in me."

Kurt grinned just an inch above Puck’s sweat-damp skin. Yes, their old familiarity had _definitely_ resurfaced. This felt like coming home after a long voyage. He slowly pulled the dildo from Puck, noting with satisfaction that even his strong muscles had loosened, and rolled a condom onto himself. Puck watched each motion with his wide, dark eyes, and his hips tilted up again when Kurt slicked a healthy amount of lube along his length. 

"I remember these," Kurt said as he gently cupped Puck’s balls where they hung heavy between his straining thighs. He saw Puck about to protest his delay, and no matter how beautiful Puck looked spread under him like that, wanton and open, it was time. Kurt leaned forward. Their bodies pressed close for one long, lingering kiss, and then Kurt reached between them and steered himself into Puck.

It was just like he remembered, Kurt thought, his eyes fluttering closed in a haze of bliss. This was the boy who’d been his first everything, even if they hadn’t remembered. This was the boy who’d been his escape from a life that was choking him. Now they were men and they were both coming home. He forced himself to halt until he was nudged forward by Puck’s ankle against the small of his back, and then slowly sank into Puck to the root.

They’d spent years apart. It took a few long, driving thrusts until Kurt found the right rhythm, and longer until Puck knew just when to greet him. They were out of practice. They’d remember.

Kurt only found Puck's prostate by happenstance, and not reliably. They were out of practice. They'd remember. Until they learned every inch of each other's body again, Kurt thought as he moved in and out of Puck, they'd have fun recalling what they'd forgotten.

"The box," Puck said as Kurt paused to adjust his angle, and then nudged Puck’s leg into a more comfortable position for him.

"I'll buy you anything," Kurt said breathlessly. Did Puck want a pony? Sure. In the haze of their sweat and sex, that made sense.

"I meant," Puck said, breathing hard, "a box of those. Ngh. Special condoms. Feel what it's like. Like on this end." His fist pistoned his cock; they’d learned the safest approach was for Puck to bring himself off against his fingers.

Kurt grinned as his hips slammed against Puck. "What’s it like?" He could feel Puck vise-tight around him, so warm and soft that he could lose himself forever in the comfort of Puck’s body. 

"Full," Puck grunted. His hand sped. He was probably close. "Hot. And fucking _big_ ," he said and threw his head back, teeth gritted.

"Yeah?" Kurt asked. His voice was dropping in pitch as he, too, approached his peak. The descent was slow, like a leaf falling, but Puck clearly remembered that sign. His legs tightened around Kurt's waist.

"Could pound into you," Puck said, neck tense and eyes closed. "Or make you beg for it. Spread you open. Make you... make you...."

"Bend me double," Kurt suggested as his pace sped. "Get my feet over your shoulders." Was he dirty talking? He was, he realized, and nearly lost it right then. The thought of being open to Puck, bending and twisting under him as their bodies moved, made his skin tingle.

"And watch you... _fuck,_ " Puck said with a grimace and stroked once more, hard. He cupped his hand over his cock as it began to erupt, so that his come wouldn't slam into a wall or bruise Kurt's skin.

The feeling of Puck's muscles contracting around him, just on the edge of too tight after they'd loosened him, drew a low cry from Kurt. His fingertips molded deeply into Puck's thighs, and with a few last strokes, Kurt lost himself inside him. He came hard, with the momentum of years apart, and felt a delicious exhaustion sweep over him as soon as he'd finished. It really did feel like they'd sluiced away all the time in-between, and four years was a heavy weight to move.

"I love you, too," Puck said, now that they'd finished and his sense seemed to return.

Kurt leaned forward and kissed him, long and slow. "That," he said when he pulled back, "is much better than 'yeah.'"

Puck grinned and didn't apologize.

"You said you'd have my legs over your shoulders. Or should I still be on top?" Kurt wondered innocently as he crawled forward a little and sat himself on Puck's softening cock. He began to roll his hips like he was riding Puck's erection, and Puck groaned as he watched Kurt's lithe frame move over him. 

"It's a good view," Puck said. "Yeah. Maybe we should do that."

Kurt smiled, heady with love and endorphins, and rolled off him. Puck would soon be ready to go again, thanks to his superhuman stamina, but Kurt needed longer. Besides, they had nights ahead of them to experiment. "I'll buy a box," he murmured as he snuggled up against Puck, peeled off his condom, and threw it into the trash can he'd thought to put next to the bed. The semen on Puck's hand had been out of him too long and was starting to cool, which Kurt didn't like. He wiped it off with tissues, instead, and threw those after his condom. Next time, he'd lick it off right away.

_Next time_ , he corrected himself, _Puck's finally going to be coming inside you._ The thought made him shiver and Puck's arm stole around him.

"I'm so glad we found this again," Kurt said after they'd laid there for a while. His lights automatically dimmed after some time in bed. The world felt reduced to the sensation of each other's body and the sight of their eyes glittering in the low light. He was only mildly aware of the purple night outside his broad windows, and of distant golden windows lining the park.

"I'm glad you let me," Puck said.

Kurt kissed him and they rested there a while in peace.

"How long do you think you'll keep this?" Kurt eventually asked. His fingers trailed lightly over Puck's mohawk.

Frowning, Puck pushed himself up on one elbow. "What?"

"I was just remembering how you looked without it, when you had to shave it off." Kurt smiled up at him. "Very handsome. Looking back, it really brought out your eyes without that as a distraction."

"I like my 'hawk," Puck said grumpily. "It's not a distraction."

"All right, it was just a thought," Kurt said and placed a hand soothingly on his chest, careful not to push on the bruises. "Calm down, lie down. I like it fine, or I would have been bothering you before now. You know I would have. It was really just a thought." He'd be surprised if Puck still wore it by the time he was thirty, but Kurt didn't say that out loud.

Thought he still seemed put off, Puck laid back down. Then he actually _fluttered_ his eyelashes at Kurt, who giggled faintly. "So, you like these, huh?"

Kurt leaned over and kissed him gently, once on each closed eyelid. "Very much." He kissed Puck's forehead next, right below the mohawk. "I like this, too."

"Good," Puck said.

"And I like this," Kurt continued, trailing his lips along Puck's stubble-marked hairline, past his ear, and to his strong jaw. He kissed where it met his throat. "And this," he murmured. More kisses fell lightly along Puck's neck as Kurt worked toward his collar bone. He could taste the very slight salt from Puck's sweat, and under it, Puck himself. Eventually he stopped moving and focused on one spot, working his mouth wetly against Puck's warm flesh. 

Puck groaned, pleased, and looked lazily at Kurt when he pulled away. "Marking your territory?"

Kurt kissed the mark he'd left on Puck's skin. "Your shirt'll hide it." His gaze caught Puck's and heavy meaning passed between them. Puck wouldn't have to explain to his fellow dockworkers that he'd been with someone last night, and so they wouldn't make assumptions about who _she'd_ been. He wouldn't have to lie or come out. All of those reassurances were in Kurt's eyes.

Puck's, though, said something simpler: _fuck that._

Emboldened, Kurt leaned back down to suck another mark. The new one was on Puck's chest, high enough that even one undone button would reveal it. He kissed that one like the one before, and then tucked himself snugly against Puck. "I set my alarm."

"You've gotta go in tomorrow?"

"Mmm. Not that I've heard yet, though I might need to. It's for you. And I called for a car to be here, so you don't need to bother with a taxi." Kurt's hand rested on Puck's stomach, high enough not to imply another round but low enough that only he would be allowed. "You're going to make a good impression with your boss, get promoted, and win employee of the month."

"Well, thanks for looking out for me," Puck said, trailing his fingers lightly through Kurt's hair. "Don't need you to, I have my phone alarm, but...."

"It's my job," Kurt said and tugged the blanket up over them both. Autumn was chilly and deep winter loomed. His apartment had good climate control, but it just felt colder when he looked out and knew that even in the darkness, frost was blanketing the park. It'd be nice to have someone there with him. "Night," he said.

Puck took a while to reply. Kurt tilted his head up and saw Puck studying him. His dark eyes glittered and looked full of wonder. "Night." Sleep came, welcomed by the slow, steady rhythm of their breathing.


	4. And I Won't Change

The next morning Puck rode to Brooklyn in a car driven by a man in uniform. Puck didn't like how Kurt's job had him disappear for a week at a time, but he did like the fringe benefits. "Hey," he said, leaning forward. "Drop me off at my place."

"I was told to take you to your workplace."

"Yeah, but I want to change clothes at home." If this was going to be a regular thing, then Puck might need to keep some outfits at Kurt's. Kurt had bought a full caddy of toiletries for him, but hadn't stocked his closet full of Puck-sized sturdy clothes, and Puck doubted he'd willingly buy anything with Zeppelin's logo on the front. "Look, you don't have to wait for me. I'll get myself to work."

Clearly the driver didn't care about him so long as his duty was fulfilled, and so he nodded and accepted the new address. Once home, Puck ran upstairs and threw on the first clean clothes he found, then hurried downstairs again. Rain threatened but didn't yet fall and so Puck ran for work without pulling up his hood.

Halfway there, Puck paused and returned around the corner he'd rounded. Grinning, he took a picture of new graffiti that had popped up overnight. He had no idea how people could be that good with just spray paint, and neither did Sarah, his little sister still living in Ohio. Puck had promised to send Sarah pictures of 'neat stuff' in New York, once he'd settled there and was back in regular contact. He'd lived up to that promise. She not only loved graffiti, but people in weird outfits, food sold on the sidewalks, and every sort of urban architecture.

His mom, though, liked the slow pace of a smaller town, and the two of them had stayed in Lima even after the S.H.I.E.L.D. contract ended. Sarah might move to New York when she hit eighteen, for all he knew, but that wouldn't be for years yet.

All of that made him wonder where his birth sister was. Not knowing anything about Miri hurt, but he'd slowly come to accept that the most responsible thing he could do was let her live her life apart from him. She'd been given new memories and a new family. It wouldn't be a kindness to tear apart her life to give her back a brother she didn't know she had, and in the process, tell her she'd been brutally orphaned.

So instead, Puck took lots of pictures for Sarah and always replied to her texts quickly. He was being a good brother, even if one of his sisters didn't know he existed. For Miri, being good meant being invisible.

Life was trickier than he'd thought as a teenager. There were no one-size-fits-all solutions to love, family, career, or anything. Still, he thought he was doing a pretty good job of figuring things out as he went. It had just taken some stumbles, first. Sometimes, it took a lot of stumbles.

At work, Puck traded his sweatshirt for coveralls and rubbed his hands together. It was chilly in the early morning, but he knew more manual effort would keep him warm even if the sun never cut through the grey, flat clouds. He adjusted his fingerless gloves as his breath steamed.

His coworkers were heavily dressed, but they were seated as they drove forklifts and pushed buttons. He would work up a sweat like they weren't. Not bothering to put on a lifting belt, Puck picked up a cube of four washing machines from a shipping container and slid them into a waiting truck. He hopped in, scooted them to the back, and repeated himself twice more before it was time to concentrate on boxes stored in the warehouse. His work might not be thrilling, like Kurt's secret missions or the girls' big showy fights, but Puck still liked it. He liked knowing that what he moved would be in someone's actual home, he liked seeing physical progress made as he worked through their inventory, and he liked using his hands.

Secretly, Puck thought that Burt would probably approve of his job, but he wasn't yet willing to raise the issue. Burt Hummel generally steered clear of him, anyway. They had no reason to interact besides Kurt, and unless things got a lot more serious, even that reason wasn't going to come up.

Puck's mind skittered away from any thoughts of things getting _a lot more serious._ Over the years he'd gotten used to the feeling of being in love, and had discovered that he actually liked being with one person who really understood and dug him. That had only happened twice. He could understand why Lauren had stepped back from a world that took her as a hostage, and he didn't blame her for it. Now he and Kurt felt like a matched set in their crazy world full of violence and heroics, and he didn't want to screw up what they had.

But still: that didn't mean they needed to head for _a lot more serious._ He liked where they were, and for the foreseeable future he wanted to stay right there. At most, maybe he'd move into that nice apartment before the end of next year. _Maybe._ He'd want to pay rent, though, even though Kurt didn't pay it to S.H.I.E.L.D. Puck had spent years living down to everyone's expectations and he didn't want to feel like a freeloader, not even for a month.

He was already thinking about the logistics of sharing an apartment. _Damn_ , Puck thought with a crooked grin as he shoved around pallets of imported coffee makers. Sure, it wasn't like they'd only been dating for a few months; their relationship had years behind it, and even more miles than days. But he hadn't expected to fall back into everything so completely. Or at least, not so quickly.

Puck might not want to think about getting more serious just yet, but he didn't shy away from accepting how serious they were now. Being in love was huge and scary as hell, and it took guts to admit it. And Noah Puckerman had guts.

"Nice, Puckerman," said one of his co-workers when Puck stepped outside for a blast of cold air. Lifting heavy appliances above his head had worked up a sweat.

Blinking, Puck wondered if he'd meant his work with the crates. That was impressive, sure, but it was nothing they hadn't seen before. Belatedly he realized the man was looking at his chest, and the fresh hickey revealed in the crook of his unbuttoned top.

Another man took a swig of soda. They'd decided to take a collective break, it seemed. "What's her name?"

"Or did you bother to get it?" asked a third and they laughed. Puck was the youngest in the group by ten years, easily, and he had the feeling his workmates lived through him vicariously. In their eyes, he was the young buck living large in the city.

_It takes guts,_ Puck repeated to himself, and thought for one short second about hiding. It'd be easier, that was for damn sure. As soon as he did, though, words from the night before returned to him: "Fuck that."

He repeated them too quietly to be made out, and the men asked what he'd said. At their confusion, Puck raised his head and said, clear and strong, "Kurt."

"Kur... that's a weird name," said one man, and scratched his head.

"Pretty normal name for a dude," Puck said. "Cobain, Schilling." Or was that one spelled differently? It probably didn't matter.

Though some only shrugged, some looked at Puck like they'd never seen him before. "Oh," said one man, too calmly. "Just thought that, uh, you liked women. When they've walked by, you know, and we all noticed them."

"I do like chicks." They looked uncertainly between themselves. Puck had the feeling that many were worried whether he was about to jump and overpower them. _Funny,_ he thought, _guess you didn't give a shit about me overpowering those girls we wolf-whistled at. Only when it's you._ "I probably even like chicks more," he added, just so they could move past this bullshit without every single one of his coworkers being marked as a permanent idiot. "I like women: tiny, big, flat chests, huge tits, young, old, all of them. I only notice a few men, and trust me: you guys aren't them."

"We're not?" asked Vic suspiciously. He was over fifty and had a bulbous nose that, near as Puck could tell, was permanently red. Puck just managed not to roll his eyes. Vic must have a very high opinion of himself if he thought that someone young enough to be his son cared about his dick.

"You know what guys I like?" Puck asked. He had a specific type, he knew, from the few men that had made him look twice on the streets. Some of his coworkers seemed torn between distaste for the topic and reassurance that his tastes wouldn't tend toward them. Others genuinely didn't seem to care, but would take the break from work for as long as a conversation lasted. "I like lean. Athletic. Flexible." With a killer ass, eyes that looked straight through him, and a mouth that could either smile like the sun lighting up or latch onto his cock and make his knees buckle. Puck didn't add the last bit.

Hector repeated the three words and scratched his short beard. "So... I guess that makes sense. Basically girls, then?"

Puck worked with morons. He really did. "If I wanted a girl, I could get a girl," Puck said. He flexed, sloppily but enough to remind them all of who had the best body on that dock. "I'm pretty damn good at it."

They still looked dubious and Puck bit down on the question he wanted to ask: _want me to describe his cock to you, because I've sure seen it enough?_ Somehow he had the feeling that Kurt would find out, and he'd probably be mad. Puck wasn't always sure where lines were, but 'don't talk about someone else's dick in detail to a bunch of strangers' was a pretty safe bet for being in forbidden territory.

"I love him," Puck added, with a little shiver at how easy it was to say. "So don't start talking shit. Got it?" Then he shoved a crate into place, the better to lean casually against. It was more than anyone else there could move without a forklift. 

No one said a word, and Puck smirked.

Being in love was totally badass.

* * *

Emma Frost slapped Finn across the face, hard.

"Again," she said as his head rang.

After a deep breath, Finn nodded and watched her warily. Emma's eyes, as blue as Brittany's and as sharp as Kurt's when he got mad, studied him unblinking. He saw her next attack coming and raised his arm to block her strike, but his forearm was like smoke and she passed through it unchallenged.

She slapped him across the face again, hard.

"Are you going to ask me to stop?" Emma asked when Finn finished rubbing his aching jaw.

"No," he mumbled. It felt like she'd dislodged something important, like his teeth. He'd learned in their earliest sessions that they were done when she decided they were, and not one second earlier.

"Good," she said. Her hand flashed out again to strike him.

Finn's headache pounded. _This pain can't get any worse_ , he thought in a flash, and instinctively brought his arm up with none of the structured defenses he'd tried earlier. That time, his arm stopped hers and she smiled in satisfaction.

"There," Emma said. "You were overthinking things. That's an easy enough state for you, I suppose. Don't overtax your brain."

That felt like an insult, but at least she hadn't managed to hit him again. "Okay, but I don't want to be knee-jerk about things," Finn said. "I've kinda screwed up when I just went totally with my instincts."

"What did you do?"

"I hid Kurt's memories from him so he wouldn't do something I didn't want him to, and I lied to him about them, too. Everyone got really mad at me. Then Kurt made me rip off the patch that I shouldn't have put on him. That was pretty hard, and so I think it made it easier for the creepy shadow alien possessing me to take over, since I was so tired."

Emma let Finn ramble, and when he finished she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Well, that all is simply... horrifying. The good news is that you're stronger than I thought, if you were able to do that untrained. The bad news is that we clearly need to focus on training specific skills so you don't do _that_ again, perhaps even before you fully learn to shield yourself. We'll work on them next time."

Next time? Thank god, it was over. Finn wasn't totally sure how he'd gotten railroaded into having Emma Frost as a tutor. It wasn't like anyone had outright ordered him to say yes. She'd wanted him, though, and Emma wasn't someone you could just turn down. "Um, thanks for the lesson," Finn said and stepped out of their psychic training arena. His jaw no longer ached, because Emma's hand had never actually moved. While their brains sparred, they'd been motionless in chairs opposite each other. His headache was worse than before, though, having taken all the attacks done to the psychic representation of his body.

"I'll see you again next week," she said. It was difficult not to groan. "If you were a mutant," Emma added airily, "you would have been trained since you were twelve or thirteen, and you wouldn't be working so hard now for some base level of competence."

"Yeah, yeah, and I'd have a tail, I know," Finn muttered as he walked out of her office and into the halls of Xavier's School. The first time he'd come there, in search of Rachel, he couldn't help but remember a conversation he and Kurt had held years earlier when they were worried about whether they might be mutants. They'd discovered that their powers had come from a different source, but all the inhabitants of that school still had to deal with the world hating them. With such prejudice against the group, their investigative firm had seen more than a few mutant clients who felt abandoned by the normal channels. He'd long since gotten used to being around people with animal parts or brightly colored skin.

Not all of the students he passed were visibly mutated. Some looked as human as him, while others seemed like they'd come out of some special effects studio in Hollywood. For their part, the students looked just as curious about a seemingly normal human who was past school age and was wandering their halls. "Emma's teaching me psychic stuff," he explained when the stares got a little too intense.

"Oh. Good luck," said a wide-eyed girl with crystals jutting randomly from her skull.

"Yeah, thanks," Finn said, only growing grumpier with the acknowledgment of how hellish his assignment was. If his coworkers weren't supportive, it would have been easy to turn Emma down. (Or easier, at least.) But no, they just _had_ to think it was a worthwhile investment for him to master his abilities. They just _had_ to be fine with him losing one morning every week to this. Grumbling, he walked to the garage and hunted down his rental car, then held onto his bad mood on the hour's drive back into the city.

His mood only eased by the very end of the drive, after he'd sung along with nearly every song on the radio. Finn returned to the Zipcar spot and walked another block to their tiny, unassuming office tucked below a shoe store. Six months earlier it had been below a computer repair firm. The shoe store wasn't doing well, so in six more months they'd probably have another new upstairs neighbor.

"How it go?" Tina asked when he pushed open the door.

"I was able to drive myself home this time," Finn said with a big thumbs-up. Last week, Emma had left him with such a severe headache that a flying X-Man offered to drive his rental back, since Finn couldn't manage it safely. At the end of that trip, Finn had nearly fallen over when he watched his chauffeur take off into the sky.

"Hey, that's an improvement," Mike said.

"Is Mercedes getting food?" Finn asked when he saw it was only the three of them.

"Yeah, she'll be back pretty soon."

"Is she getting _me_ food?" Finn asked.

Mike paused, and then quickly sent a text. "Now she is."

Finn didn't ask which of the numerous restaurants in the area Mercedes might have chosen for the food run. So long as it was hot and cheap, he'd happily reimburse her and eat whatever she'd carried back. _Perfect_ , he thought when she returned with a familiar bag in hand. He loved calzones: they were like oversized Hot Pockets, or maybe even better. "You remembered," he said happily as she handed him a container scribbled with the name of his pizza-style favorite. After his awful morning with Emma, the day was looking up.

Mercedes set aside her sausage and mushroom, gave Tina her barbecued chicken, and shook her head in sad disbelief as Mike claimed his veggie order. "I don't know why we don't make you do our lunch runs, Chang," Mercedes said as she settled in for her meal. Most days, she and Tina saved half of their lunches in the small dorm fridge they'd bought, and took them home for dinner. These calzones looked great, though, and Finn didn't know if she'd be able to manage it. "You could actually do lunch _runs_."

"Lunch flights," Tina added.

"Hey, no exploiting my powers," Mike said. "Sam says I should be doing all the cleaning around the apartment, too, just because I can do it at two hundred miles per hour." He saw the others exchange a look and frowned. "I don't care, it's still not fair."

"If one of us had powers that meant we could get the apartment cleaned in five minutes," Mercedes said, gesturing between herself and Tina, "we'd pitch in. And... and if you cleaned, Mike, then maybe Sam would have more free time." All of them looked at her sympathetically and Mercedes added, "I just miss him."

"You've been working your butt off," Tina said. "It's your last semester thanks to those extra classes, remember?"

"So you'll have more free time, at least," Mike said. "And hey, feel welcome to come over whenever."

"Thanks," Mercedes said, though her mood didn't sound much brighter. They worked on their meals in silence.

The calzone began to feel heavy in Finn's stomach, and he remembered that he'd accepted a snack from Xavier's kitchens upon his arrival at the school. Not wanting to waste his food by stuffing himself past when it was pleasant, Finn set his meal aside and started digging through his phone's photo album. He'd have more space to finish his lunch in ten minutes, after things had settled.

In the meantime, he would do anything but actually work. "I took a picture of those puppies I mentioned," Finn said as he clicked through candids of the people he spent time with: his co-workers, Rachel, Kurt, and Puck. Damn, he couldn't find any puppy picture inside that collection of faces. Maybe he'd accidentally deleted it instead of saving the shot.

"What're their names?" Tina asked.

Finn looked up from his hunt. "Frankie and Lou."

"Two boys?"

Finn shook his head. "Two girls. Burt said he picked the names from Springsteen songs."

"So they're not replacements for you and Kurt, then," Mike said with a grin.

Finn returned it. "I'm really hoping not." Remembering that Carole had sent him more photos of the puppies, Finn brought up his Gmail account and started looking for the right subject line. He needed to get a new account kept purely for personal stuff, he thought. His work flung dozens of emails at him every day, if not more.

The other three came around behind him to watch Finn work. "We should ask your parents about throwing a barbecue," Tina said.

Finn glanced at her. "Isn't it a little cold for that by now?"

"Or a dinner party or something. I just want to play with puppies and get free food." Tina shrugged. "Right now, I might actually call that a major life goal."

The door opened and all four looked over. A man about their age, worn and nervous, entered the room with his hands in his pockets. "Hey, uh, you're investigators, right?"

Finn smiled. With everyone awkwardly behind him, he supposed he was the greeter for this client by default. "We sure are. What can we do for you?"

He walked over, every step measured. "Do you, like, follow people and see if they're cheating or anything?"

"If that's what people want," Tina said. That wasn't their favorite kind of job, but heartbroken lovers paid money as good as anyone else's.

"And then you tell them what you see?"

"Mmmhmm," Finn said. "That's kind of the whole point of hiring us."

"So it's your fault," the man said, choked.

Finn blinked. "Huh?"

The man pulled his hand out of his pocket. Everything in Finn's world condensed to one point in front of him: the open barrel of a gun. Cold steel leveled at Finn's forehead.

_He's going to shoot me in the head. He's going to shoot me in the head. He's going to shoot me in the head._ Finn tried to gulp air, but he couldn't move. If he moved, the man would shoot him. _Mom was right_ , he thought almost hysterically. _Someone's going to die and it's going to be me again._ That was how he'd died. He'd been shot right between the eyes. That was where the gun was pointed.

"I wasn't fucking cheating on her," the man said, shaking. "I was just...."

"We don't make any judgments," Mercedes said carefully and rested her hand on Finn's shoulder. "All we do is take pictures."

_And read people's minds when they're really dangerous,_ Finn thought as he sat there, frozen. _But I didn't read this guy's mind. I would have known. But I didn't. Not in time. He's going to shoot me in the head._

"It was just one time," the man said as tears spilled. "Just one time for real. And then Lily left me, and it's your fault."

Finn's mouth started moving, even as the part of his brain still thinking coherently screamed at it to stop. "So you really did sleep with someone else?"

The man sobbed, and pulled the trigger.

Energy flared and the bullet rebounded off the interior of Mercedes' shield. It hit the metal of the gun, rebounded again, and impacted the man's hand twice before it stopped moving inside the bubble of energy. "Call 911," Mercedes said as the man screamed and clutched at his mangled flesh. Her hand was vise-tight on Finn's shoulder.

"He tried to shoot me," Finn gasped. He'd already died and he almost just got shot through the head. Again. "I... I could have stopped him. I could have moved away the gun, but I just didn't think. I couldn't... he was going to shoot me."

With a pained roar, the man tried to fling himself forward. Finn yelped and held up his hands. A wave of telekinetic force rocketed out of them, its purple energy flickering in time with the pounding in Finn's head. The energy flung the man toward a computer, over that desk, and against the wall. Tina rushed to follow him and quickly stuck a pocketknife into a power outlet. Charged like that, she was able to keep the man sedated and harmless.

"It was right there," Finn said, and held his trembling index finger right where the barrel had been. "I could have died again. Brittany's not here and I would have stayed dead. I don't... I can't...."

A mechanical pencil glowed purple and skittered across the desk surface. It went still when Mike grabbed it. "Call him," he murmured to Mercedes, who nodded.

Finn breathed in and out. _Fuck_ , he thought, and his vision blurred with tears. _I could have saved myself. I could have put up a stupid shield, too._ "I froze. I totally froze."

"Hey," Mercedes said into the phone. Mike took over her role of clasping Finn's shoulder as she talked. "It's me. Um, are you busy?" She hesitated. "Okay, stunt driving training sounds really neat and all, but is there any way you can head over here from that track in Jersey?"

She was calling Kurt, Finn realized, and rubbed at his eyes. Of course. The last time he'd been freaking out and faced a bullet through his head, Finn had latched onto Kurt's brain to overcome that.

"Kurt," Mercedes finally snapped, "I don't care if you just managed to pull a whatever for the first time, someone tried to shoot Finn and he's freaking out." Her mouth pulled down into a scowl, and even without reading her mind Finn could hear, _Yeah, no duh, I'm serious._ "Look, can you get your butt over here or should I call Rachel? Normally I'd call the girlfriend first, but I know you two have got that weird twin brain thing." She nodded. "Good. Okay, I'll call her, too."

"He's coming?" Mike asked as he slapped his hand down on another glowing, trembling pencil. The new stray burst of telekinetic energy vanished.

Mercedes nodded and Finn let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Yeah, he told his bosses and they said it was okay. He's driving over here. I'll call Rachel, too." She began speaking into her phone again and Finn focused on keeping his hands flat against the table.

"I'm going to go sit next to Tina to make sure the guy doesn't try anything, all right?" Mike asked and Finn mumbled a few sloppy sounds meant as acknowledgement. All of them had been in danger from the gunman, really, but he was glad that they weren't getting on his case for being the most unsettled. He was the one who'd been pointed at, and he was the one who'd already taken one bullet through his skull.

A pencil twitched again, glowing, and Finn forced himself to take another long, deep breath. It was bad timing that Emma had spent all morning battering his psychic shields. His powers were twitchy thanks to that, and hard to control.

Sirens blared outside and Finn's headache returned. At least it was just pain, now, rather than surging energy. He fumbled in his desk drawer for some Aleve as the police officers rushed in. As Mercedes hurried over to greet them, Finn tossed back three pills and swallowed, chased with a lukewarm can of soda. He'd long since learned to keep headache medicine everywhere he spent any considerable amount of time: the apartment, his office, Rachel's place. He caught sight of his abandoned calzone and Finn's stomach lurched.

"Are you licensed?"

Finn gestured to the wall. A framed certificate hung there, proclaiming that they'd completed the city's program for superpower-enhanced small businesses. It didn't give them freedom to do whatever they liked, but they did have a bit more respectability in the government's eyes. The police didn't love those businesses who had that piece of paper, but they distrusted those who didn't.

The officer nodded, satisfied, and made notes in his book. "Can you tell us what happened? We'll get preliminary statements from all of you."

Finn shared what he remembered in short, halting bits: the man approaching them, asking about them tracking romantic partners, having a gun pulled out of nowhere and leveled at his head. Mercedes told much the same tale and the officer called to his partner. "Hey, where'd the guy have his gun?"

As the other officer checked him over, Tina said, "In his jacket pocket."

A sharp, sudden cluck of the tongue made Finn jump. His officer was shaking his head. "On top of that gun he's not supposed to have in the city, now he's doing concealed carry. Hell, we wouldn't even need to see your security tapes."

"Security tapes?" Tina asked as she backed away from Finn's assailant. He was still sniffling over the pain of her powers. "Oh," she said, blushing, when the police looked at the four of them. "I'm guessing that it's standard for investigative firms to get a security system for the office."

"Good to know," Mike said and coughed. "We're, uh, still kind of figuring things out, here."

Tires screeched outside, close enough that both officers put a hand on their guns. It sounded like a motorcycle had nearly come down the stairs. The sound made Finn's headache start pounding anew, but then he felt a familiar comfort under it. Finn held onto the lifeline of his brother's brain and let himself go limp. For all that he'd complained about feeling what Kurt felt when Puck was around, there were times when having another mind to lean on was a godsend.

Kurt shot him a quick smile when he pushed open the door, but his eyes and mind were full of worry. As the officers half-stood, concerned, Kurt held up a badge. "S.H.I.E.L.D."

One officer still looked confused, but the other drew back and nodded, impressed. "We've got this handled. It's just a normal thug, looks like. P.I. firms get these sorts of guys all the time. They really didn't need to send anyone."

"I'm not here for the hostile, I'm here for him," Kurt said, and gestured at Finn. _'The hostile,'_ Finn thought and actually managed a weak smile. By now, Kurt sounded like Sue. "Do you need him for any more questioning?"

The officer shook his head. "Not now. We'll want to get his contact information for a statement later, though."

Kurt nodded and laid his hand on Finn's back. Sensing what he wanted, Finn rose and let himself be guided from his desk. Without acknowledging the other people there, Kurt steered him from the office, up the stairs, and to the motorcycle he'd parked on the sidewalk. A badge was on it, probably telling any police officers not to ticket the vehicle of the fancy special agent. "I'd just started on this," Kurt explained when Finn noticed the uncharacteristic vehicle. "My trainer told me to go right away."

Finn felt a flash of Kurt's first-person memories: weaving through dense traffic like they were cones at his training yard. Kurt wasn't an expert on two wheels, yet, and he easily could have plastered himself against a truck hurrying to see Finn. And if he wasn't yet comfortable with driving himself, he certainly wasn't ready to drive both of them through traffic. They hesitated in unison, frowning.

Another car drove up and Rachel hurried out of the sedan. Between the police cars and Rachel's vehicle, the impromptu traffic block was getting worse. Someone honked in protest and she spun to reveal her costume to them. It was sleekly impressive, all black and white and glittering gold, but they still honked again. Apparently, traffic annoyances in New York City trumped superheros. "Are you all right?" Rachel asked when she turned her attention back to Finn.

"Yeah, he just... he was going to shoot me in the head," Finn said. He swallowed. "I froze up. It was really scary."

"Okay," Kurt said and squeezed his arm. "You could have just done a telekinetic block, you know."

Finn's eyes closed. "Yeah, I _know._ I froze. I screwed up."

"Sorry," Kurt said. "Not trying to throw blame, I promise."

Finn rubbed his eyes. He wanted to go home, but Rachel couldn't go inside their building. They could go to the Tower, but every time he stepped inside Tony Stark promptly started bugging Finn to read his rivals' minds and give him industry information that would send his stocks sky-high. Apparently, Tony didn't buy into the telepathic ethics that Finn followed.

Rachel and Kurt murmured something to each other, and then Rachel said, "All right, Finn, I'm going to take you home. To your home," she added when he looked confused. "And Kurt's going to be there soon, too."

"Sure," he said, and let himself go along with whatever happened next. He'd struggled more than enough that day and Finn didn't want to think. "Let's go home."

* * *

While the police talked to members of a small, still insignificant investigation firm near the Port Authority, a Gramercy penthouse prepared to host the young and beautiful of Manhattan.

"You're pink," Santana said, blinking, as Brittany walked through their door.

"I know," Brittany said. She worked her hands down her ponytail, which was the same cotton candy shade as her clothing and skin. After squeezing, she managed to wring a bit more moisture from it. "That fight went weird."

"The party starts in an hour," Santana said, more amused than anything. Brittany didn't appear to be hurt, after all.

They stared at each other for a beat and Santana felt the full weight of how annoyingly peculiar Brittany's day had been. As an independent hero, every day was an adventure for Brittany: the complete opposite of Santana's strictly regimented life. "I'm gonna take a shower," Brittany said. At least pink was cute, Santana thought as Brittany made a face at her sticky hands and disappeared down the hall. Brittany could have gotten hit with a wave of orange or yellow. Those colors wouldn't go with anything in her wardrobe.

The cleaning crews had tackled their apartment earlier, and so there was little left to do but maintain the charade shown each week on television. Santana popped into their spare room, which was supposedly Quinn's, and made sure that it looked lived in. It was where their guests would leave their jackets and where, if NBC was lucky, some of those guests would get a little more drunkenly intimate than they'd expected upon arrival.

Before leaving, Santana stuck a post-it on the bathroom door alerting visitors that it was in use, just to be on the safe side. Lighting technicians would soon let themselves in. With a diet cream soda in hand, she left the apartment and knocked on a door around a corner, where no one coming to their party from the elevator would ever think to wander. "Hey," Quinn said as she welcomed Santana to the prep area. Makeup and wardrobe people were already working.

The audience believed the two of them lived together as best friends and roommates. Santana had trawled Unmasked fan sites (until she read a few too many creepy posts from overinvested viewers), and from that she knew some people suspected the truth about her and Brittany living together. Still, NBC's general viewership believed that they were watching a show about superpowered friends in the big city, who were definitely not living with any unmarried romantic partner, male _or_ female.

For a gorgeous home and free tuition, Santana could pretend that it was Brittany, not Quinn, who lived outside that two-bedroom apartment and only came by for visits. NBC didn't shy away from presenting them as dating and in love; they just didn't want them _living in sin_. Fair enough.

Santana sank into one of the styling chairs in Quinn's living room and held her hair away from her face. "I'm thinking giant Adele curls." She enjoyed it when professionals were responsible for her hair. Santana wasn't entirely sure just what they used to get all that volume when they really went for it, and it was fun to play around with a look she never otherwise sported.

"Mmm," said her stylist noncommittally, and Santana turned around with a questioning noise. "It's just that with your outfit, that might be a little 70s kitsch."

"My outfit?" Santana asked. She'd picked out a sleek little cocktail dress that made her look like she'd been splashed with white and neon pink paint, and thought it would have been pulled for her that night. Big hair would perfectly balance out such a slip of fabric.

"You're wearing Donna Karan exclusively for the next three episodes," the stylist explained and gestured a PA over. He arrived with an ivory and black jumpsuit in hand. Santana hated it immediately. "You'll like it on," she said after seeing Santana's reaction.

"I guess," Santana said, knowing that she was wearing that jumpsuit with or without an argument. The very first lesson she'd learned as a paid face on television was to never challenge the sponsors.

Santana and Quinn reviewed their class notes and textbooks as the stylists worked, and managed only minor success with studying. As she attempted to focus on her English composition chapter, Santana couldn't help but note with annoyance that a cute red cocktail dress was hanging next to Quinn. She would have traded with her in a heartbeat. 

"Oh," her stylist said some time later, when Santana's hair had been pulled into a tight, high ponytail that reminded her of her days on the Cheerios. Santana looked up and saw Brittany at the door, face flushed and resigned. Though her skin was almost back to normal, even a long, hot shower hadn't been able to scrub the pink from her hair.

"It's cute," Quinn decided.

"I actually kind of like it," Santana said. She wasn't even sure if she was lying. It did look better than she would have expected, and Brittany looked far more normal now that her entire body didn't appear to be dipped in Pepto-Bismol. "You're totally punk rock."

"It won't come out," Brittany said, pouting.

"We'll bleach it tomorrow if you want," Quinn's stylist said as he moved smoothly between the girls. Quinn's hair was already done, a casual mane that looked as if she'd just rolled out of bed after the world's best fuck. Santana was jealous of that, too. They were still smearing goop on her head so that her ponytail would stay perfectly sleek on camera. "And... well, we had this pink dress pulled for you, but that's clearly out of the question now."

In a new color-blocked dress of white and blue, Brittany wound up with the oversized Adele hair that Santana had craved. Everyone had fun hair but her, Santana thought grumpily as she flicked through her textbook's pages. "Yeah, sure," Santana said when they held up shoes with five-inch heels and platforms to match. She'd become an expert at balancing on shoes as high as their price.

"Santana," someone said next to her, and with surprise she realized a producer was there. Tommy was one of the three heads of the production company who'd signed off on their show. If they were in contact with anyone, it was usually him, but when it came to face time Tommy usually restricted himself to a normal working schedule. A Blackberry in hand 24/7 made up for all those other hours. "I was just on my way to a party a few blocks away," he explained, "and I wanted to stop by. Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure," she said and walked into the bathroom. Tommy closed the door behind them. Frowning, she looked at that closed door, and then to him.

"We need to know if you want to go outrageous."

"What?"

"I've been reviewing tape. On campus, Quinn told you not to use certain language. Normally, we'd agree; one of our stars flinging around slurs and whatnot would get us angry letters that, frankly, we don't want to handle." Unlike Quinn, Tommy didn't sound offended; he honestly sounded like the only downside to what she'd said was that other people might care about it.

Santana blushed. Damn, everyone was making such a big deal about one little word. It was more fun when random Congressmen ranted broadly about how her being a television star with a girlfriend was somehow leading to the moral downfall of America. "I won't say it again. Fine."

"Well, see, that's the thing. Quinn's the perfect America's Sweetheart kind of girl. Maybe it would be good if we had more contrast. Do you want to go outrageous?"

Santana only blinked at him.

"You know, any time you can think of something funny and offensive to say, go for it," Tommy added. "Push it more."

"I don't... aren't we just supposed to be us?" Santana asked as she pulled her robe tight. Maybe she was inherently more biased toward the 'outrageous' end of the spectrum, but it wasn't some act that she was putting on for their cameras. "And wait, why is Quinn the perfect 'sweetheart?' I'm sweet." She saw his mouth quirk with amusement. "Or... I can be." Sometimes, Santana was a good liar; that was not one of those times. Even if Quinn could sometimes play the bitch like no one else, it didn't mean that anyone would ever buy Santana being sweeter than her.

Still, when Tommy chortled right in her face, Santana's suspicions were confirmed. She forced a tight smile. Maybe Quinn was America's Sweetheart because she was a pretty little delicate blonde, or because she had the potential for a big dream heterosexual wedding episode that played to Middle America. Either way, Santana not falling into those categories meant that she was the outrageous one. The other. The bad girl.

"We're not talking full Snooki, here," Tommy began, and Santana held up one hand.

"I'm just me, I'm not playing some character," she said tightly. She was not a girl from Jersey _fucking_ Shore. She was a good student at NYU, famous and beloved to a lot of girls who didn't have any other role models, and the only real difference between her and Quinn was that one girl was in a steady relationship and the other was flying free. That, and the temperature ranges of their superpowered attacks. _And no, I don't want to be your sexy bad girl. I'm not the devil to Quinn's angel, you got me?_

Santana kept her mouth shut, as much as she would have liked to have said the words. Tommy was one of the men who signed her admittedly generous checks, and she could keep her anger in reserve for if and when it was truly needed. Maybe being able to bite back her temper meant that she was growing up, Santana thought, and just kept herself from snorting. Or maybe it meant that they were paying her just enough to swallow her pride. The thought didn't leave her feeling terribly comfortable.

"Okay, just wanted to raise the issue with you," Tommy said and glanced at his watch that probably cost upward of five thousand dollars. Santana wanted to melt it onto his wrist. "Look, I've gotta make my party. Have fun tonight, ladies."

Santana watched him go unhappily and accepted the jumpsuit when it was offered. She pulled it on inside the small bathroom, teetered on her sky-high shoes, and accepted a belt so broad that it felt like a corset. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, Santana was forced to admit that she looked spectacular. It wasn't the outfit she'd expected, but she was still smoking hot like few people could ever manage.

"Come on," Quinn said, glorious in her tight red dress.

"Do we even know who's here tonight?" Brittany asked, prodding at her pink hair as she leaned into view of a mirror.

"Do we ever?" Santana asked, snorting. They'd long since stopped inviting actual friends; those were seen in rare and quieter moments. "But either way," she added when she saw how uncertain Brittany looked about herself, "you look totally cute. I promise."

"I do?" Brittany asked. She managed to smile when Santana nodded. "It's just really, really pink."

"I still like it," Santana said, but the stylist yelped when she leaned in to kiss her girlfriend. Brittany and Santana turned to her, annoyed.

"Please get some shots of your lipstick before it gets smudged, okay?" she pleaded.

Free college, Santana reminded herself as she led Brittany into the hall and toward their apartment. Free college and thousands of little girls who saw themselves in her mirror. At least the stylist was just panicky, instead of full of gross and calculating judgment like Tommy.

People soon began to arrive. The party held a different group than they'd hosted before, and yet was exactly like every other social gathering they'd been to. No matter the setting—their place, a hotel ballroom, or the Hamptons—the mood was always the same. There was a certain kind of hunger that flashed in the eyes of everyone who came near the camera, and they veered toward the cameramen like compasses near a magnet. Millions of people watched the show every week. Only a handful of people on it had superpowers, but the others still felt like fame could grant them a certain kind of power.

"Hey," said an unremarkable man who managed to corner Santana. He was vaguely cute, had medium brown hair, and might have had a good body under that phenomenally unstylish outfit. "Thanks for inviting me." 

"Yeah, sure," Santana said. Who was he?

"I'm Sam's friend? Peter?"

Santana blinked at him a second longer, and then stood straight, startled. She'd completely spaced on anyone attending that they actually knew, or who at least knew someone that they knew. "Oh! The guy from the paper, right. Why didn't Sam come?" It shocked her more than a little, but she actually missed seeing his stupid fish face. If Sam insisted upon staying away, then perhaps she should suggest an episode's trip to the aquarium. Or the zoo; at least six different animals there would remind her of Finn.

"He was pretty busy." Peter held up a camera. "Hey, is it okay if I take pictures? I'm trying to make rent this month and I guess some people here are kinda famous?"

Santana considered Peter. She was suddenly hyper-aware of the thousands of dollars in material and labor draping her body, and of the ill-fitting suit this man was wearing. He looked absolutely nothing like the other people there and just like most of their old friends when they'd bothered to visit. "Technically, I think it's only supposed to be our cameramen filming here," she said.

Peter smiled, lopsided and tired. "Fair enough."

"...But taking pictures isn't _filming_ ," Santana said after a second longer, in which she'd pictured Tommy's annoyed face. She wasn't positive, but from her rough read of their contract and her early legal training, she was fairly sure Peter wouldn't get in any real trouble for this. If so, they'd only have her to blame.

And they'd wanted a bad girl.

Santana smirked. "Yeah. You know what? Take all the pictures you want. Of everything. And totally do whatever you want with them."

Peter started. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Do you want a shot of me and Brittany making out?"

To his credit, Peter managed to swallow first rather than leaping immediately forward like a falling man grabbing a rope. "Yes please that would be just super."

Santana grinned. When she called Brittany over, she had a flash of Tommy's outraged expression as they drew together for a long, sweet kiss. "My girl dyed her hair pink," Santana practically purred as she ruffled her hands through the soft curls. "It just happened today, and so it won't be on any episodes for a couple of weeks. You can totally break this story."

"Great," Peter said, tittering.

"And doesn't she look hot?" Santana said and kissed Brittany's nose. Brittany seemed a bit confused as to the sudden outpouring of affection, and to whom Santana was talking, but willing to go along with it. "I'm a huge fan of the pink hair."

"Thanks," Brittany said. "Um, who's he?"

"Some guy who knows Sam," Santana said.

"Peter Parker," he said. "And your hair looks totally great, yeah. Do you, uh." Santana could actually _see_ his brain shut down as he sought he right compliment to give the superhero with the weird but powerful abilities, who'd suddenly walked in with Care Bear coloring. "Do you floss?"

Brittany tilted her head.

"Please pretend I didn't say that, I'm really not sure where it came from."

"I like him," Brittany decided and Santana grinned at them both. The evening already felt as if it had been salvaged, and so she spent the next few songs wandering the crowd as she was supposed to. She was going to call old friends, Santana decided, and see people at quiet lunch meetings, and study her contract very thoroughly. For all she knew, Tommy couldn't actually force her to go to these stupid parties that had gotten old about six months ago.

In the midst of drunken socialites and would-be actors who refused to eat anything with calories, Santana noticed Peter looking through the window. She tugged Quinn's wrist and drew her attention there, too, and both girls wandered over. If it was what they thought, they needed to address it pronto.

"Hey, there's a huge bird out here," Peter said. "It keeps pecking. I swear it wants inside."

Quinn only sighed and looked like she wanted to be anywhere but there, but the people near the window were already taken in by Peter's words. "Look at it!" one laughed and tapped the glass in a particular rhythm. The raven cocked its head to one side and then repeated that pattern in a sharp, determined beat. That done, it looked expectantly at the people watching it. One man waved. It held up its wing and actually appeared to wave back.

"Oh, for the love of...." Muttering, Quinn stormed over to the window and opened it, letting a blast of cold air into the room. The raven hopped inside and quirked its head. A loud cry, sounding somewhere between a duck and an angry cat, drew laughter. Quinn looked like she wanted nothing more than to hurl it back into the night like some feathery javelin. "What?" she demanded of the bird.

It held up one foot and pecked at the tiny slip of paper attached to it. The cuff holding the paper in place gleamed like real silver. It might well be sterling through and through, given who she was dealing with. Wary of that long, cruel beak, Quinn retrieved the paper delicately and stepped back before she read it out loud at the camera man's prompting. Santana peered nosily over her shoulder. At every step, they were filmed.

_Fair Skadi of the Isle of Manhattan,_ Thor's letter began, and Quinn's hands twitched like they were about to shred the paper. _I seek your companionship at a feast held in the honor of a great warrior's naming day. It will be held on the day after the morrow. They have promised cake._

"That's from Thor!" Peter said. Just in case the group hadn't realized exactly who he meant, he added, "From the Avengers!"

Santana bit her lip so she wouldn't laugh at Quinn's flat expression. Quinn certainly knew who Thor was.

"An Avenger is actually flirting with Quinn?" asked one of the partygoers.

"Oh my god, you totally have to go."

"I would wreck that man, you have _no_ idea."

"Is Quinn going to be a god? That’d be so great. I would love that episode."

"He’s not a god!" Quinn said and crumpled the paper. The raven squawked at her almost like it was laughing, and flew back out the window. She threw the note after it. "Fine. I will go talk to him," she told the group when it became clear that she’d be held to his offer. "I am not going to date him, but I am going to talk to him."

As the attention moved firmly to Quinn, Santana stood back and smirked. Peter’s camera flashed like an entire line of paparazzi. If Tommy did talk to them later that evening, there was an excellent chance that he’d hound them over Quinn and Thor, not whatever Santana had done with Peter’s pictures. Perhaps it wasn’t fair, but Santana was all for moving the attention elsewhere.

"I think it’d be fun for Quinn to date Thor," Brittany said as she came up to stand next to Santana. "Even though he can’t sing karaoke."

Santana thought back to Rachel’s party, and how Thor had stood on stage and only looked bewildered as he followed the words lighting up to songs he’d never heard. "Let’s dance," Santana said and pulled Brittany toward a blank spot on the floor. For the length of that song, at least, there would be no producers, no focus groups, no ratings concerns. No responsibilities. No one but them.

The world would soon intrude again, and it was a needy thing with claws and teeth, but they’d take their joy where they could find it. As the party clustered around Quinn, and Brittany and Santana were left alone to move in time to the music, Santana could almost remember how simple life had felt when they first moved back home.


	5. Elaborate Lives

Rachel knew that millions of lives hummed around her as she drove Finn away from his office. She usually loved the vitality of New York City, its sheer pulsing mass of humanity, but not when her telepathic boyfriend was frightened and vulnerable. All those minds could be screaming at Finn and she'd have no idea. What was silent to her might be deafening to him.

"I'm not sure why he told us to come here," Finn said and rubbed his forehead. His apartment tower stood above them after, against all odds, she'd found a convenient parking spot. The doorman to the boys' building looked at Finn, and then at Rachel. Clearly, he was confused as to why someone unauthorized was standing so close to one of the most secure places in the city, but wouldn't challenge Rachel so long as she was there with a resident. Rachel being in an obvious costume didn't seem to affect him. She supposed they saw all sorts of people in that S.H.I.E.L.D.-owned building.

"I'm sure Kurt will be here soon," Rachel said. She'd driven slowly, hindered by traffic, while Kurt had taken off like a shot and ignored lane restrictions. He wasn't all that well trained on two wheels, yet; she hoped he made it there and back safely. 

Rachel's phone beeped at her. She glanced at it and saw 'Stephen Menken,' the not-terribly-secretive pseudonym Kurt used for anything public: his phone, email, and the Facebook account that was only authorized to message certain other parties. S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't seemed to latch onto the obvious composer name references like she had, and so Stephen Menken it was. 

_got it be there soon_

Good, then: Kurt hadn't crashed. Rachel put her phone away and returned her attention to Finn. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," Finn said. By then, he looked almost sheepish over how he'd reacted. "I feel really stupid. I can do my own shields, you know. They're not as strong as hers, but they're enough. Mercedes didn't need to save me."

"It's a good thing she did." Rachel hadn't meant it as criticism. She'd made silly mistakes during her training and helped others when they did the same. Still, Finn flinched and looked at his feet. "If you're alive in front of me," she added gently, "then it's a very good thing that she used her shields."

"I guess." Finn looked up and down the sidewalk, and then toward the park at their back. "Why'd we come here, anyway? Are we just hanging around out here?"

"It sounds like Kurt got me authorized to come inside," Rachel said and Finn's expression lit up like he'd never gone through his terrible day.

Motivated by Finn's near-death experience, Kurt had gone to ask S.H.I.E.L.D. about letting Rachel into their building. In retrospect, it was silly of them to have never checked before. Puck and Finn had both gone through a lengthy vetting process, but they were civilians. Rachel might not be a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent herself, but she was on a team that worked intimately with the agency. She'd been analyzed, scanned, and tested as much as Kurt had, but those results had just never been transferred from one network to the other.

Now S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed to have approved letting her into Kurt's apartment, based on the analysis done of her by the Avengers. That was good, she thought as she rubbed small circles on Finn's back. It would be better for him to be in his own home, rather than her Tower apartment. Though Rachel was a little surprised at how easy everything had been with Kurt's ridiculous security, she wasn't one to question a good thing.

Finn's smile was as bright as she'd ever seen. "Really? So you can come over and I don't have to go to the Tower any more? If we want to, uh." Finn shot a glance at the doorman, who stayed professionally blank. "Do stuff?"

"That is indeed an option," Rachel said, glad for how relaxed he seemed. She would happily discuss their sexual plans in front of Finn's doorman if doing so meant that Finn's brain wouldn't rip into tiny little pieces.

A familiar engine roared behind them and Rachel turned to see the motorcycle she'd heard speeding away from her at Finn's office. "I'm allowed to park that there," Kurt told the doorman when he'd pulled to a stop.

The doorman seemed familiar with the routine of an agent zipping up in total disregard for the city's traffic laws. He checked his watch. "You're authorized one hundred twenty seconds of parking, sir."

Kurt pawed through his pockets and handed a small metal keycard to Rachel. "Hold on to that with your thumb when you put it into the slot. It takes biometric readings off the pad. Um, let's see. They're feeding your information into the system right now, so if it doesn't recognize your eye at the elevator, try again and it should work. Don't touch the panel in my front hallway, bad things'll happen."

"Bad things?" Rachel asked.

"Just don't touch it. Stay out of my room. And my bathroom. Only eat my food if you're hungry, since Finn's is full of more chemicals than Nicole Kidman's forehead." Kurt nearly danced where he stood as he dug through his memories. "Get Finn to show you how to work the TV, since there are a lot of remotes, and don't open the closet near the front door. It's full of guns."

She blinked. "All right, that's good to know."

The doorman coughed and checked his watch, and Kurt flung himself back onto his vehicle. Fortunately he'd been training on a small, sleek little thing, instead of some monstrous Harley he'd have to maneuver. "I have to get back to work, if you're going to be here with him. Be back later!" Kurt said, his last word dopplering away into nothing as he raced back onto the street. Cars honked and swerved to let him into their flow. He needed more training on that thing before he was set loose on the world.

"He looks really weird on a motorcycle," Finn decided as they watched Kurt vanish into traffic.

Giggling, Rachel let herself be led toward the building. They stopped at the doorman, who greeted them both with a handshake. Odd.

"His cufflinks scan you to see if you're a robot," Finn explained as they walked inside. It was a nice lobby as befitted its position opposite Central Park, but on the lower end of that street's spectrum. Anyone who somehow got inside would be fooled into thinking it was a typical condo tower, but the government hadn't spent any more money on outfitting it than they needed to.

The elevator was around a corner, so that no one walking into the building would see that it was guarded by a panel full of scanners. Finn leaned forward and held his eye open as wide as it would go. A net of lasers read it, and then the computer beeped. He gestured Rachel forward and she leaned in, held her hair away from her face, and waited for the same treatment. Her information seemed to be in place and she earned the same placid beep that Finn had.

There were more scanners along the way, but if Finn expected Rachel to be surprised at the security, he'd be disappointed. Rachel worked with a man who wore nearly sentient body armor into firefights and had designed his own skyscraper from the ground up; it was tough to impress her with technology. The final hallway looked normal except for the card readers near each door. Locks didn't click until both of them had scanned their cards, but then the door swung freely open.

Rachel didn't try to hide her snooping. Kurt's apartment had become something of a legend among their friends, even as most of their busy lives rarely overlapped. Rachel's place in the Tower was gorgeous, of course, but anyone was welcome to visit. The entire country saw the inside of the Unmasked apartment, which Rachel suspected had been deliberately chosen as a Friends ripoff. (After international licensing deals had expanded for the second season, twelve more countries were also invited inside every week.) Artie was busy, but always happy to welcome visitors, and so were the others at Finn's work. Artie being in a gorgeous loft and them in tiny apartments hardly mattered; they always enjoyed seeing their friends, even if they wound up falling asleep watching television. Puck wasn't the most welcoming host, but then, no one really wanted to make the trek out to Red Hook, anyway.

And then there was Kurt's apartment: that government black box. He refused to talk about it, citing privacy concerns, and Finn bought into that secrecy as well. Puck hadn't talked after his short time there, and besides, neither he nor Finn were the right people to give interior design descriptions. Rachel was more than a little excited to see this place that had remained as such a big unknown.

The floor was such a dark, slick espresso that the wood looked almost like polished marble. Stark white walls were severe in contrast, and meticulously chosen photography did little to soften the blow. The entry hall opened into a living room that overlooked the park, and which shared the space with a kitchen glossy with stainless steel. Rachel could picture Kurt there if she worked at it, but it all seemed like a terrible match for Finn.

Once past her initial impression, Rachel began to pick out little homey touches marring the apartment's perfection. Finn had left dishes in the sink (there was no way those were Kurt's). The fuzzy throw slouched over the couch was too rumpled to be purposeful. Magazines were scattered across the small dining table. Rachel picked up a copy of Vogue and noticed it was well-read. She smiled. It was good to see evidence that Kurt hadn't flung away his old interests as he worked on his career.

"Do you want a drink?" Finn asked as he gestured to the fridge.

"You don't need to wait on me," Rachel said, catching his hand. "We're here because of you, remember?"

"I'm okay," Finn said, looking genuinely embarrassed by that point. "Getting out of the office helped."

"But you're always in a bad mood after your visits with Ms. Frost."

"Yeah, well." Finn shrugged.

Rachel frowned and looked around the apartment. There in the entry hall was the doorway she must want, and she tugged Finn toward it. She knew his bedroom was listed as an office on the floorplan and that looked like the best option. "Come on," she said. "You're going to lie down."

What was supposed to only be a sliver of an office was surprisingly spacious. There was just enough space to move around Finn's bed, but still, an entire bed fit inside. It wasn't just a twin-sized one, either; a full queen mattress was inside his windowless bedroom, and a wardrobe had been jammed into a corner. It wasn't any more crowded than a lot of bedrooms in that city. He'd been fortunate that Kurt had been assigned an apartment with that extra space, Rachel thought as she sat on the bed and tucked her legs under her. "Come here."

When Finn entered the room, though, he seemed to overwhelm it. What seemed like a fine space to her looked tight around him. He must spend most of his time outside that room, Rachel thought as she patted the bed beside her. "Lie down."

He did so. "I try not to take naps during the day," Finn said, looking up at her. "Then my sleep schedule gets all weird and I wind up watching QVC at two in the morning."

"Let your brain turn off," Rachel said. She added impishly, "It's okay if you stay up to watch QVC."

"No it's not, Kurt said I bought a crappy food dehydrator off there and he made me send it back."

"You bought a food dehydrator?" Really? She could picture him with fifty other gadgets before that one.

"They just had a neat demonstration and I wanted one." Finn frowned and turned away from her. "I had to be rescued today."

Rachel stroked his hair. "But that's all right, Finn. You rescued me from London. Remember?"

He shook his head and fumbled for a blanket. "A long time ago I told Kurt that guys with powers like mine are the ones who always get rescued. The strong guys save them. Guess I was right. I always have to be rescued." Finn looked back at Rachel and smiled sadly. "But you know, I'm actually pretty good at the investigative stuff. You wouldn't think I would be, but I can get people to talk about what we need."

"Good. That's good." She leaned down and kissed him. What started as a light, comforting peck soon deepened, and Finn's arm snaked around her waist and pulled her down onto the bed with him. Her costume was comfortable but not quick to get off, and Rachel started thinking in a pleased haze about how fast she could manage it.

Rachel didn't suffer through any real emotional swings each month. She sympathized with any girl who expected a week where she was weepy or tense, but her emotions were already stretched to their limits with her natural love of performing and earning adulation through fearless heroics. Her hormones couldn't possibly make her feel anything _more_ than she did when she heard her name being called by an adoring crowd.

While her hormones didn't affect her heart, they certainly made up for it elsewhere. There were some days when she could run a vibrator for half an hour and end up as nothing more than sore, and some when even the pressure of crossing her legs could twitch deep between her thighs. Once they'd finally made their relationship physical, Finn had been left confused as to why she had days of never being in the mood versus ones where she'd practically dehydrated them both.

Then, months in, he got it. He left her alone on days when her body was achey and unpleasant, and on others touched her like she hadn't even known she wanted. It took Rachel far too long to realize what was happening: she was with a telepath who could feel exactly what her body wanted. He'd barely brushed against her thoughts by that point. When she'd invited him in for more, she was left as a helpless puddle on her bed.

Finn Hudson might be clumsy, and although she loved him, she knew he wasn't the brightest man in the world. Still, when a man could just _know_ exactly where his mouth and hands should go without a word being uttered, any usual awkwardness vanished. Few people seemed to have guessed just how Finn could put his powers to use when they were together. Rachel enjoyed that particular bit of privacy.

It was approaching the days when her body tingled enough to be a distraction, but still, Rachel pushed away from Finn. "Not today," she murmured.

"You want to," Finn said, and of course it was true.

"I want you to rest your brain after your training this morning." _And what happened afterward_.

Finn's dark eyes held hers and she wondered if he'd heard that. "I'll take a nap," he said.

"Good," Rachel said, kissed him on the forehead, and stood. "Sleep," she insisted when he looked ready to make one last protest, turned off the light, and closed the door behind her. 

Until she felt confident that he'd started to drift off, Rachel kept her mind occupied. First she looked out the windows, over the park. Autumn had already stripped the trees of much of their cover, and what remained had faded into dull late oranges and browns. Soon, snow would fall. It must look beautiful during the winter from up there on high; her apartment in the Tower looked out on nothing but buildings. Rachel smiled at the thought. She knew people who could fly, but she'd only ever been in planes and they didn't take scenic tours of the city. Now that she had her keycard, she could come back here when the city was under a blanket of snow and curl up between her boyfriend and best friend. 

Next she prowled around the apartment and pictured it decorated for Christmas. Or would Kurt bother, she wondered, when their parents lived so close? It would be easy for Burt and Carole to bring a tree home, while it would be quite an ordeal for these two. Still, she remembered how Kurt had forced Christmas treats on nearly everyone last year, as he'd been determined to try out his kitchen and all the gadgets it contained. There was no way Kurt would let the season go entirely unrecognized. Finn would probably whine if he tried.

Rachel heard the low rumble of a snore and her fingers twitched. Finn was asleep. He wouldn't hear what she was about to think.

_Someone nearly shot him in the head. I already watched that once. It almost happened again. He almost died. He almost died and I would have just been told about it. Someone would have called me to say he was dead. He almost died. With a gun. His head._ She inhaled, her breath shaky, and wiped the few tears that had spilled. It was difficult controlling herself for the sake of others, since she still felt things just as strongly as she ever had while standing on stage as the diva of New Directions. 

Steve Rogers, one of the people working with Rachel on how to be a proper hero, had told her that a leader had to put aside their emotions when it came time to guide others. A brave leader could give people courage in the face of certain death and a calm one could keep them steady as the world fell apart around them. When she'd asked how she was supposed to stop feeling all those big, scary emotions, he laughed and said that he'd never actually stopped being scared. What he did learn was how to stop showing it on his face, so the people around him would at least think he had everything under control.

Acting. Being a leader wasn't just making the right decisions, it was _acting_ like what people wanted to see. What they needed to see. Once he'd said that, Rachel's work began to make much more sense. She always loved giving people a good performance. 

Her fear over Finn rushed out of her hard and fast, and soon Rachel was wiping away tears and throwing the crumpled tissues in the trash. That was another lesson she'd learned: dispose of emotions quickly when they had to show. They couldn't always be ignored, but sometimes the best thing a leader could do was to vomit them up and just get them out of her system. Now that she'd allowed herself that cry, Rachel wouldn't be a beacon of fear and pain if Finn woke up again.

Right, then. Pulling the rumpled throw over her, Rachel settled onto the couch and fumbled with the television. She had time to kill. Perhaps she'd manage a nap before Kurt came home, she thought as she pushed the power button. Frowning, she tried another remote. That one had three different power buttons, and none of them did any good.

Rachel frowned again at the black screen. Damn. She really should have had Finn show her how to work these things.

When Kurt got home at the end of that long day, Rachel was reading his magazines in peace. She liked magazines; they didn't need remotes.

"Is Finn here?" Kurt asked as he opened the closet Rachel had been told not to touch. He was wearing a typical outfit for him, with tight pants and a complicated jacket that probably cost upward of a thousand dollars. Rachel supposed it made sense to look like a civilian on the way home, on a normal commute when he hadn't gotten an emergency call in the middle of training.

As Kurt hung up that ridiculous coat, Rachel said, "He's taking a nap. I'm surprised that he's still out, but I suppose his work with Ms. Frost is very draining."

"It's good that he's not obsessing over what happened at work," Kurt said and sat next to Rachel. She nodded. "Of course, this means he's going to stay up late watching TV again."

"Sorry. He told me about the food dehydrator." Rachel rested her hands on her knees and squeezed them, like she was holding on. "I can't believe that someone almost shot him."

"I know." When she glanced at Kurt, Rachel saw that he was just as tense as she was. "I was supposed to do some target practice when I got back, but all the targets looked like... it didn't work very well for me." He swallowed. "I did some paperwork I'd been putting off, instead." His hands tightened, then released. "We should change the topic in case Finn wakes up."

"Good idea." Rachel hesitated for one breath before grabbing for gossip. "Then I want to know how everything's going with Noah."

Kurt laughed.

"Everything. Spill." Well, not _everything_ , but she trusted Kurt not to share anything that would leave them both blushing. (They'd need at least a little alcohol in their systems for that.)

"I'm so happy," Kurt said after a long pause, and he smiled when he turned toward her. "I have the sort of amazing life I dreamed about in Ohio, and everything that was good about living in New York."

"We have done pretty spectacularly for ourselves, haven't we?" Rachel asked.

"People would kill to be us."

"Not that they could ever manage to pull it off." Any pretenders might hit the key features, but they'd always lose points on style.

"Anyway, Puck feels so...." Kurt trailed off, and Rachel let him sit unprompted until he finally found the right word. "Real."

"That's nice?" Rachel said. It was an odd thing to say, but not bad.

He smiled nostalgically. "Do you remember the first time we went to a Broadway show together?"

Before they'd gotten their memories back, their trip into the Gershwin during Nationals had been their first real exposure to Broadway. They'd both been captivated, amazed. Inspired. When they remembered their old New York lives, though, they also remembered how the two of them had met at six years old. They'd just happened to sign up with the same vocal instructor and that was enough to have their lives intersect from that point out. 

Yes, she remembered their first trip to Broadway. At eight years old, her fathers had offered to take them both to see The Lion King. "He lives in you," Rachel sing-songed, thinking of those two men who'd raised her and then perished for their jobs. "He lives in me."

"He watches over," Kurt picked up, "everything we see." He let the music die and didn't look quite as taken by his memories. His relationship with his parents had been worse than Rachel's, and he still had the best part of his family from those years. "I remember how, for a week afterward, we both worked on our auditions. I don't know about your neighbors, but mine were not happy."

Rachel smiled. "Of course. We were wholly convinced that, within a month, we'd be in that show."

Kurt giggled. "Remind me why I wanted to be Zazu? I can't stand him."

She giggled, too, remembering a tiny slip of a boy reciting self-important dialog and trying to act like he knew how to operate the complicated stage puppet. 

"That all was a fantasy. We lived in it for a while until we finally accepted that it wasn't real." Kurt sighed. "For both of us, when the world grew too hard, too cruel, we always had our fantasies. We would be better, richer, and more famous than those teenagers that nobody wanted. Our daydreams were always waiting for us."

"We're living in the real world now, though," Rachel countered. "And we're both amazing, remember?" It would have been so easy for her to capitalize on her powers and reach for as much glory as she could, to be even more amazing. Instead, she was doing the grunt work of an apprenticeship, and only taking a step forward when she was confident of the ground below her feet. Grabbing for glory had lead to gravestones back in Lima. She owed it to those names to not rush ahead.

She knew Kurt couldn't read her mind like Finn could, but sometimes he was awfully good at guessing. Kurt said, "And you're doing great with that, but sometimes I get a little... I get excited. I was doing driving training today, right? Well, my mind went straight to big, exciting movies with crazy stuntwork, and then I was daydreaming again."

"Hopefully not while you were speeding around a track."

He half-laughed. "No. But when I wasn't actually driving, oh, I was a big Hollywood star and a pampered billionaire and a million other things." Kurt glanced around his home. "That's probably a side effect of a job that gives me a killer apartment and a ton of neat toys."

"Probably."

"It's a really great apartment, though. I mean, seriously, have you looked at it?" Kurt gestured around them. "I feel like I should be telling MTV about my crib. There I go again."

Rachel smiled. They'd both gone through stressful times in their work. She'd not only had the memory wipe that landed her in London, but all the general commotion of being even a junior member of a team that faced down supervillains on the regular. Now, with more training, her voice didn't simply explode. She could target a person's inner ear with a low hum and leave them disoriented and sick, or break all the glass in the area with one sharp note to expose anyone hidden behind reflections. She'd needed to develop those skills when they were in danger on the ground. Kurt faced all the tense missions of any secret agent in his position, with the razor-thin margins of error to match. "It's all right if we daydream. It's a pressure release valve, and we need that." Rachel considered that. "Karaoke would help, too. Not that I'm trying to pressure you, but...."

"But you totally are." Kurt laughed. "Let's go tonight, if Finn's up for it."

"Really?" Rachel asked brightly. Oh, good. She'd written off that night as a chance for performing. Any day was better with a trip onstage.

"We'll ask him as soon as we're done. He needs to wake up anyway, or he'll never get to sleep tonight." Kurt paused, then continued, "I just don't want to _lose_ myself in daydreams, if things ever get bad. I did that in Ohio sometimes because I had no other choice. But Puck... like I said, he's so _real._ " Kurt heaved a deep breath. "Sometimes it's almost overwhelming, but sometimes it's amazing. He lives in the right now. There's this intensity where he lives every single second right as it happens, hard. He doesn't let it pass him by because he's already planning years ahead."

"Sometimes it's good to plan, though," Rachel said. "I bet he thinks about you. About where you'll be." Kurt looked down, his cheeks faintly pink. Rachel laughed and pushed his shoulder. He let himself rock with the motion. "You are so in love."

His cheeks darkened further, and he smiled like a secret was breaking free.

"Maybe not as much as _you_ probably think about the future," Rachel added, "but I bet Noah does. Even if he would never admit it if we asked." She tilted her head. "Do you want to invite him to go out with us?" When the four of them got together, it felt like all the best parts of her childhood again.

"He's probably settled in for the evening, since I didn't give him a heads-up before he got off work," Kurt said. "He's way over there and we're way up here."

Fair enough. Puck worked hard over in Brooklyn, even for someone with his strength. She imagined he was tired at the end of most days. "It'd be easier if he took a closer job, you know."

"I've talked to him about other possibilities," Kurt admitted.

Of course he had. He'd kept Puck looking to the future, Rachel thought with satisfaction. Rachel knew she'd had nothing to do with the two of them, but still, she and Finn had been the first to see. She liked watching them thrive like some rare flower. 

Kurt was so guarded with his heart. He'd only really been in love two times, and each time the man was a perfect complement in some way. She didn't count Jack, that older agent, even though he'd brought his own positives to the table before he left to take his new job. Kurt had never _swooned_ , there.

It had to be nice to take such careful steps, Rachel though with a wry smile. She'd circled Finn like a comet. She loved him and she would always love him, but sometimes they had big, loud arguments and she stormed off to prove her point about where she belonged in the world. And she did prove that point, with all those big emotions to follow. Then, inevitably, they got back together. It was wonderful when they were together, especially with those powers of Finn's, but it wasn't steady. Not like what she saw from Kurt, or Mike and Tina.

"I heard about the two of you shooting up that restaurant," Rachel said as she stood to grab Finn.

Kurt laughed. "I was shooting up that big monster in the street!"

Rachel threw a grin over her shoulder. "You sound like you make a good combat team. That's important for couples, you know."

"Our lives are weird," Kurt said as he saw what she was doing and went off to change his clothes again.

Finn took a while to rouse, but he was up for a club trip when he remembered why Rachel was in his apartment. A nap had healed the worst of his trauma, it seemed. Perhaps telepathic minds were simply more resilient to that sort of thing. They took a cab together, aiming for Rachel's favorite place. It was quieter than it would get later in the night, but it was never really _quiet._ They had to wait through three singers before they could get onstage. Kurt bought them drinks in the meantime, secured with a fake I.D.

"One second," Kurt said as Finn rifled through the catalog. Rachel watched him rise up on his toes and survey the crowd, his gaze sharp and searching. "I'm good," he eventually said, and only then addressed their confusion. "I wanted to make sure no one had any recording devices. I'll put on a little bit of an illusion onstage, just to be safe." His illusions were psychic, and so they only worked on human eyes and minds. A video recorder, or anything like it, saw right through his attempts to mask himself.

"I'm fine, Kurt," Rachel said. "If you shouldn't sing because you'll get in trouble at work...." She trailed off when he flicked his eyes toward Finn, and swallowed. Right. It wouldn't do to have Finn associated with his face if someone wanted to cause Kurt trouble, and especially not after Finn had met that gun barrel earlier. "Right. How would you look with red hair?"

"I'm thinking black," he said and changed as they stepped on stage. Coming out of the shadows like that, no one would have really noticed the change. Nor would they have caught the way his eyes turned to olive green, or the slight adjustments to his features. Kurt didn't look like himself any more, but could be his relative. 

"So weird," Finn said as he saw Kurt's new face, and took his microphone. _Every single time, it's so weird._

Kurt grinned at him with that stranger's face and then gestured Rachel in close to share his microphone.

I Gotta Feeling was a hot mess for the three of them. Rachel insisted upon making the next pick.

* * *

Not many of the heroes in New York were fond of the Unmasked girls. Quinn had learned that painful truth more than once, after the NBC vans had roared in with them and their cameras to claim a fight that someone else wanted. The editing room removed most of the insults thrown at them.

Brittany had a better time of it, since she went off on her own without a camera crew. Simply dating a sell-out was more legitimate to the general heroic rabble. Quinn and Santana, though, were total pariahs in the eyes of some of their contemporaries. They'd skipped all the grunt work and costume repairs and grungy apartments, and had stepped into fame well before it was earned.

Quinn brushed all of that talk off. Any actor or model who made the big leagues would be dismissed as having taken a trip to the casting couch, right? Or they'd benefitted from nepotism or some other shortcut. She never worried about the gossip, because she was too busy saving lives, inspiring people, and securing her future. Fan mail arrived every day, talking to her about how it was so inspiring to see a girl work hard and be taken seriously, or to be both devout and open-minded no matter what the latest political debates were like. In Santana's words, haters could sit and spin, and she had a finger to offer them. (The threat was quite flashy when Santana lit up that finger like a candle.) 

She remembered that defiant feeling from her days as head cheerleader, when she was equally adored and loathed. Quinn hesitated as she walked up the broad stone steps. Perhaps that wasn't the best comparison, for she was happy to have shucked that tightly controlled image. And Unmasked really was different from the Cheerios. Sue's cheer routines had never saved lives, for one. (They'd only risked them.)

Fortunately, one of the few groups of heroes to have no real problem with them was also one of the biggest: the Avengers. Quinn suspected Rachel played a major part in that, but whatever the reason, the team had been mostly cooperative. When Quinn had called that morning to ask if she could come by, she'd been welcomed.

Stark Tower, now Avengers Tower, was beautiful and airy inside. There was even a surprisingly low number of photographs of Tony Stark on the walls. Quinn checked in at the ground floor reception, and then took the indicated elevator. Even the music was appealing: classic rock instead of muzak. 

"Oh, hello," Rachel said with good cheer as Quinn walked into the lobby of the primary Avengers floor. There were many others holding labs and armories, but this was where a visitor first came. 

Quinn smiled at Rachel's costume. She wasn't surprised at what Rachel had chosen for what seemed to be the final version. A mod-cut minidress, all in spandex and sparkles, was sleek over tights and knee boots. If not for the off-center, oversized star that was unquestionably a logo, she would have looked more like a dancer than a hero. It was a perfect blend of performance and heroics.

Seeing Quinn looking, Rachel gestured at that star. "It's off-center, and you don't actually see the entire thing." Sure enough, the spiky arms weren't all there, as part of the star had been lopped off by its placement. "That's why it was all right for me to use it."

"Are stars copyrighted now?" Quinn asked. Her logo, designed by NBC's graphics department, was a duo of white-on-white interlocking minimalist snowflakes. Santana's was two flames, one inside the other. They weren't exactly creative, but they sold well. (Her snowflakes were particularly popular in Swarovski crystal earrings.)

"No, but Steve has his own star. It would dilute both of our unique appeal to make them overly similar."

"Right," Quinn said. Their unique appeal. She'd almost forgotten what one-on-one conversations with Rachel Berry were like.

"Besides, I shouldn't step on any toes yet. I'm not really a member," Rachel said, with more humility than Quinn had thought she'd ever possessed. "I'm studying under them to learn how to build upon my talents." Embarrassment flashed pink. "We've analyzed that first mission we ran in Columbus more times than I can count. Remember that, against the Wrecking Crew?"

Ah yes, their first serious mission as a seriously unprepared team. Quinn nodded. "What did you analyze?" That sort of work sounded interesting. She enjoyed the academic analysis she did in classes, but her heroic duties were easily boiled down to 'get chauffeured to location X, hit enemies with flashy attack Y.' There wasn't much thinking involved.

"Leadership mistakes. There were many, apparently. At every stage. In multiple ways." Rachel flashed a weak smile. "Oops."

"Well, it was you _and_ Santana," Quinn said. "And Finn. Sort of." To that day, she still wasn't sure if Finn had actually contributed anything as a supposed leader for the Awesomes beyond its ridiculous team name.

"No, I'm accepting responsibility for my mistakes," Rachel said. "That way, I feel better about taking credit for the marvelous leadership they felt was displayed during our mission to retrieve Beth. If I accept both the criticism and praise, then I know everything is sincere."

Quinn laughed, but soon after a shadow fell across her eyes. "How's she doing?" 

Two sometime-contributors to the team, Luke Cage and Jessica Jones, had adopted Beth. They seemed like good people who stayed out of the most absurd of the team's drama, and they had their own biological daughter who would grow up as Beth's sister and friend. They even had a full-time superpowered nanny to keep both of the girls healthy and safe. They'd offered Quinn the chance to stay in Beth's life, but she'd realized it was easier to make a clean break, or close to it. She'd be there for the big moments if Beth wanted her, but it felt easier to live both of their daily lives apart.

"Good," Rachel said. "She's doing really well. We don't know what her powers are yet, but that should be entertaining for them to deal with when it does happen." Eventually Beth would show powers. She'd been able to fuel that machine waiting to drain her, and so there had to be powers lurking in there _to_ be drained.

"That's good to hear." Quinn allowed herself one long beat of heartache for the worst times in her life. She was famous, wealthy, and respected right now, with a great school on her resume and a city under her protection, but sometimes she remembered that girl back in Ohio who'd felt like a cheerleading uniform and perfect makeup were the only shield she had. She remembered the girl living on Staten Island who felt forgotten by everyone.

_Forgotten._ Quinn hesitated, then asked, "How often do you see everyone at Finn's work?" How could she have forgotten Tina? It still surprised her.

"Oh, sometimes. I see them whenever I pick up Finn, but I usually don't get to talk for very long. Although I'm picking him up again after work today, after the... there was trouble yesterday. We don't need to get into it." Rachel shrugged. "But we do all try to see each other when we can. It takes an effort, but I really do try to make it when I'm not, you know, fighting for my life." She said the words like she was describing a particularly challenging ballet lesson.

"Right, great," Quinn said. She bit down on how she still hadn't been making that effort, even though she hardly ever fought for her life any more. Damn. They did need to connect better with their old friends. Fame and fortune had been too tempting. Mindful of how she'd barely talked to Rachel since that karaoke party of hers, Quinn asked, "So... how are you doing? Are you glad you took Fury's offer?" They were talking. She was connecting. This was good.

Rachel nodded. "I'm so happy right here in the Tower, even when things are difficult." Dropping her voice, Rachel added in a conspiratorial whisper, "Hopefully, I can stay here past the apprenticeship years. I always wanted to be recognized for my talent. Now, I don't think that recognition has to be a Tony."

Just as she was about to say that was more humble than she'd ever expected from Rachel Berry, Quinn pulled back. Her eyes narrowed just a hair. "So instead... you just need to be made a full-fledged member of 'Earth's Greatest Heroes' and have your face all over the nightly news."

Rachel shrugged brightly. "Like I said, it doesn't _have_ to be a Tony."

Quinn laughed. "Right. I'm actually here to see one of your teammates."

"Tony Stark?" Rachel guessed. "I know he's working on—"

"That thing with Artie, right." Artie was one person she had kept up with. "No, it's actually Thor." She held up the slip of paper. "He asked me on a date for someone's birthday party."

"Bruce's," Rachel said knowingly. "Thor has figured out how to talk into a phone by now without breaking it. You could have just RSVP'd that way, to make it easier."

"No. I want to tell him to stop bothering me."

"Oh," Rachel said, and paused. "Well, this should be interesting. Um, if he's in the Tower, he's probably in the training room. He doesn't spend an lot of time here. He's very busy with all his... god work."

"Not a god," Quinn muttered under her breath as Rachel checked a readout and nodded.

"Mmmhmm. He's two floors up. Here, I've authorized you." Her fingers danced across the keypad. "It was good to see you, Quinn. You really should stop by again. We hear all about you, you know!"

"You do?" Quinn asked with surprise as she stepped back into the elevator and its doors slid closed. Huh. She'd thought the Avengers would be too busy to keep up with pop culture. Of course, Quinn added with a smirk, she and Santana did sport costumes skimpier than anything they'd worn as cheerleaders, and the team did include Tony Stark.

The elevator opened again and Quinn looked around the new floor. She never did any serious training with her powers; all her effort was spent at the school library. The training space looked unfamiliar, but it also looked terribly interesting.

Hearing grunts coming through a door, Quinn squared her shoulders and walked toward it. Crisp white skirt, sharp black blazer, black ballet flats: she looked serious and without a hint of flirtation. _Perfect_ , she thought as she pushed the door open without knocking, and was nearly thrown against the wall when energy arced past.

"Hold!" shouted her big, obnoxious lug of a suitor. Thor smiled and lowered his hammer. "You've come before the requested hour. Did you wish to see me in the midst of combat?"

"Hi," said Steve Rogers. He held up a hand in greeting and then used it to wipe sweat from his brow.

"Hi," Quinn said, just as politely, and returned her attention to Thor. "No, I wanted to tell you—in person—to please stop sending those birds to my apartment."

"They were a gift from my home," Thor said. "They are very well trained."

"Yes. I've noticed." They were so well trained that the one at the party had actually flown to the bathroom to relieve itself. The cameramen had filmed it, damn them. That'd be talked about at the watercooler: Quinn's stupid potty-trained bird. Thor kept smiling at her and Quinn actually felt a little bad. He looked so harmless up close, like some enormous puppy imbued with mystical energy. "Look, I'm not interested."

"In what?"

"In you... courting me," Quinn said, grabbing for a word he was likely to understand. 

"Have I displeased you in some way?" Thor asked, sounding hurt. Oh, damn. 

"You haven't displeased me, I'm just not interested." Quinn was glad that she'd slipped her camera crew for this conversation. Telling them she was headed to a gynecological exam had done wonders for scattering those hangers-on. "I don't want to date anyone. All right?"

"I see," Thor said, his eyes downcast. "And I understand. Committing to a life of chastity can be an honorable decision."

"I haven't...." She trailed off and only smiled. "Yes. Thank you. Very honorable." If he'd taken no for an answer, she might as well run with it. Otherwise, the conversation would end with her saying that she didn't enjoy kissing a boy who'd forgotten to shave for a few days, and so she _certainly_ wasn't about to launch her face toward a full beard.

"If you'll excuse me, then," Thor said and nodded to her, then Steve. He seemed more hurt than she would have expected from a simple 'no,' and when he walked out of the room Quinn was again reminded of a puppy. A sad one.

"I'm not obligated to date him," Quinn said when she and Steve had been left alone, and she became aware that Captain America himself was looking at her.

He held up his hands in surrender and Quinn softened.

"Thor looked sad," she said. She didn't want to start dating a bearded someone who called himself a god, but still, he'd helped a lot of people. She didn't want to hurt someone who worked so hard for others, either.

After hesitating, Steve said, "The first time Thor came to earth, he fell in love. To hear him talk about her, she's smart, brave, and a whole lot of fun."

"And now she's dead?" Quinn guessed warily. If this smart, brave someone had blonde hair and delicate features, she was getting the hell out of Dodge. She wasn't about to be Thor's replacement girlfriend.

"No. But he had to send her off so she'd stay that way." Steve smiled lopsidedly. "When you get the kind of enemies who're after us, well, a normal person like her would be in a lot of trouble if she got the wrong kind of attention."

"Oh," Quinn said softly. That made sense. "I actually know some couples who went through that. They did get the wrong kind of attention and we had to rescue them. It seems pretty tough, to try to date a normal human." Truth be told, that danger probably played into her reluctance to date. Most of the boys she met were in her NYU classes. They'd make excellent hostages.

"I wouldn't know," Steve admitted. He saw her confusion and added, "There was this lady I liked a lot. She was just... she was swell."

'Swell.' He was adorable. "And?" Quinn prompted.

"Well, I got frozen in the middle of the War, and slept my way through a lot of years after that." Steve's smile turned very sad. "She didn't."

"Oh." Quinn watched the subtle interplay of muscles below his skin, and suddenly recognized herself in this famous, beloved superhero who might have more merchandise out there than anyone else in the world. Everyone knew _of_ him, but she had the feeling that he was a lot more lonely than he let on. She hesitated and fingered the cross necklace at her throat. "Steve," Quinn began, assuming it was all right to use his name after they'd been at Rachel's ill-fated party together, "would you like to come to church with me this Sunday?"

He started, but then the light in his eyes let her know that her guess had been correct. He was more old-fashioned than she'd _ever_ met before, and that wasn't an interest that was easily found in the people he spent time with. "That'd be terrific," he said. 

"Great," she said. "I'll call you and we'll figure out cars, all right?"

"Great," Steve said. It looked much better when his smile reached his eyes like that. "Thanks. I'm sorry, but you're... Quinn, right?"

"Mmmhmm. Well. I need to be going. My camera crew thinks I'm having my lady parts looked at right now." Quinn turned pink, Steve flushed deep red, and they both managed an awkward laugh. "And I really didn't need to tell you my cover story, right. I'll call you. Or I'll call Rachel and she'll talk to... I'm leaving, now."

"I'll talk to you later," Steve agreed, not quite meeting her eyes. "About church."

"About church," Quinn repeated. She considered trying to explain herself further, and gave up and just walked for the door.

* * *

_I just met the president,_ Kurt thought days later as he watched New York approach through his plane's window.

With a host of new security features in place, the White House had asked S.H.I.E.L.D. to test their skills against the Secret Service. After Kurt and two fellow agents had successfully launched an attack on the building that ended with an unloaded gun drawn in the Oval Office, the Secret Service admitted that perhaps their system wasn't as airtight as they'd hoped. 

The other two agents were senior to Kurt in the agency, and they'd stayed behind to offer their recommendations. All three had been able to meet the president they were supposedly there to assassinate before Kurt left. (He took it in good spirits, thankfully.)

It wasn't the Secret Service's fault that they weren't prepared against them, Kurt thought, and especially against him. He was _designed_ to break in where he shouldn't. Who would have a fair chance?

His small plane swept past JFK, toward Colonel Fury's helicarrier, and roared into hovering mode before descending to the pad. Kurt jogged down the stairs and felt the air several thousand feet up lick his face. It was always colder up there, and by November the difference was brutal. 

He breezed past the normal S.H.I.E.L.D. employees in their crisp uniforms. His tighter, glossier suit was reminiscent of the leather one he'd made for himself years ago, but was superior in every conceivable way. It somehow both breathed and insulated, provided very minor protection against open fire, and even did a better job of protecting against shrapnel. Some agents added bulletproof vests to stop direct hits, but they didn't have superhuman agility. He'd only be hobbling himself if he added more weight.

Whenever one of those blue-suited agents noticed him in his special ops suit, Kurt felt a little rush of pride. Not many people were sent out on the sorts of missions that required his level of gear. His two swords stood proud at his back. Most agents had guns at their hips, but no one else he passed sported swords, especially not ones with adamantium edges on their blades. As soon as he was off work, Kurt always changed into the fine clothes that his comfortable salary covered. But until he was off work, there was something to be said for this ops suit. It made a statement just as surely as anything from the Milan catwalks.

"Sir," Kurt said when he'd been allowed into the director's private office. It was surprising that he'd been asked to come directly to him after a nonviolent mission, but Kurt supposed it had to do with meeting the president.

Colonel Nick Fury worked at his desk and didn't look up, but Kurt had learned that didn't mean he wasn't listening. The man multitasked like no one he'd ever met. It was also a surprise he'd been directed there, instead of to Fury's normal spot on the bridge. In the past, he'd given a full mission debriefing while Fury instructed an entire flight crew what to do in-between Kurt's lines.

"Tell me," Fury said.

With a nod, Kurt began. He started with their arrival in D.C., described their approach on the White House, and ended with him crossing the finish line in the Oval Office. With each word, he grew more proud, even if Fury never did look up. "And so we won, I suppose," he said at the end. _Go S.H.I.E.L.D._ , he added, though he knew better than to say that out loud.

"That mostly matches with the report I received from your teammates," Fury said.

Huh. It was odd that they'd sent a debriefing when they knew Kurt was on his way back to New York, but Kurt supposed it was standard procedure. He nodded, even though Fury still wasn't looking up to see it.

Fury scratched notes on another few pages. "Hummel, another word."

Kurt smiled and clicked his heels together. "Yes, sir."

Fury studied at the papers in his hand, considered them for a beat, and looked up. "We couldn't ask for someone more physically capable for this agency. You're tearing through your training like we've seldom seen before."

Pride swelled in his chest. "I do have natural weapons mastery," Kurt said with false modesty. "I have an advantage over those other agents."

Fury kept smiling that thin smile. "I didn't give you leave to speak."

Startled, Kurt went silent.

"By this point I'm confident that I could ask you to break into my own helicarrier's office and you'd find a way. I could ask you to take out any person on this planet and you'd probably manage it."

Kurt opened his mouth to ask why Fury sounded mad at him, and just barely remembered himself. He closed it and swallowed.

Fury watched him bite back his words and nodded in satisfaction. "You went off on your own during the White House mission. There was a plan. You didn't stick to it. What's your explanation there?"

Kurt threw his shoulders back and tilted his chin up. Every line of his body was rigid. "I saw an opening that only I could take, sir. There was a small chance that our original plan would have been found out, and I wanted to eliminate that risk."

"Your squadmates thought you'd been taken. If you'd been taken, the mission would be compromised. If this had been a live combat situation, they would have had to choose between trying to salvage the mission or getting themselves out so we wouldn't lose more good men." Fury waited for him to argue his case and nodded again when Kurt bit his tongue. "And explain this to me."

Kurt hesitantly held out his hand and took the offered papers. He looked down and blinked in confusion. It was a credit card statement. "Sir, I don't understand."

"Try."

Flipping through, Kurt saw a host of small charges: restaurants and cab fares and the like. He got to the total at the end and fought back his urge to wince. All those days living the high life had added up, when he saw it written there in harsh black and white. "I... I was given a card for incidental charges."

"Do those look incidental?"

"No, sir."

"Did you alert HQ before you started shooting up a restaurant and took a fight to the street? While teamed up with a civilian?"

"No, sir."

Fury's one good eye studied him, and then the man took a seat at his desk. Kurt remained standing. "You have potential, but you don't have the discipline you need to really put it to good use. I'm not saying you can't pay for a cab fare to get yourself around the city, but what makes you think the taxpayers need to cover you taking your friends out to lunch?"

Kurt didn't have an answer.

"Berry was at that lunch," Fury continued. "She was at that club, too, and she gets a stipend straight from Tony Stark."

"I could have let her pick up the tab, yes," Kurt said. 

Fury sighed and gestured to a seat. Kurt slid onto its cushion immediately. "I said you have potential and I meant it. Anyone facing you is probably going to end up dead. But I can't have you risking missions from a lack of discipline, I can't have you blowing holes in Midtown, and I won't have you taking more from this agency than your contract covers. If you're going to rise through the ranks in S.H.I.E.L.D., you can't act like you're already at the top. You owe me, and everyone else around you, more respect. More humility."

"Yes, sir," Kurt said, and felt about two inches tall.

"You're going to follow orders exactly, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're going to fulfill your mission requirements without showboating, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Glad to hear it. The Secret Service hates you, by the way." Fury saw the dismay on Kurt's face and added, "That's a compliment. Don't disappoint me. Dismissed."

Head tingling, Kurt shot to his feet and walked stiffly out of Fury's office. He wanted to throw up, or hide so no one would see him in his shame. Unable to stop himself, his illusions flared and his red cheeks paled to anyone watching. 

Just follow orders. He could do that.


	6. All the Words Are Gonna Bleed From Me

"Puckerman! We've got a damaged container!"

Puck grinned and slammed his fist against his palm. That shout meant that a container had leaked during its trip across the Pacific and through the Canal, and they'd cracked it open to discover that everything inside was mildewed and unsellable. They'd used to mechanically crush those goods so they'd take up less disposal space. Then Puck started working there.

He jogged over and whistled appreciatively at the fleet of half-assembled golf carts inside the faulty container. Their seats were rotten with the damp, and the saltwater had already started rusting some edges. It must have been a giant freaking hole to let in all that water. Ah well, Puck thought as he cracked his knuckles, that just meant more fun for him.

"Rip off the soft parts, get them in the dumpster," the foreman said. "And then just get the rest crushed down as small as you've can. We've already done the paperwork for the company's insurance claim."

"You got it," Puck said and pulled loose the first padded seat. He worked through that stage quickly so that he could reach the dessert of this particular meal: bending metal like clay under his hands. As he worked, Puck sang Get Off Of My Cloud under his breath and ripped apart the carts in rhythm. That slid easily into Break On Through to the Other Side, which joined up to You Really Got Me by the end. They liked oldies radio on the dock. He'd had those songs in his head all day.

"Dammit," Puck heard just as he was finishing up, and his golf carts were nothing more than a series of mostly-squared cubes. "We've got another leaker!"

This was the best day ever. 

The next container had lots of smaller items and each one needed to be tackled individually. Puck got to play demolition derby until quitting time. He knew that Kurt wanted him to take a job in Manhattan, even if he hadn't been obnoxious about it (yet), but Puck loved the dock. His coworkers had even been mostly okay after he told them about Kurt. At least, they hadn't gotten up in his face about it. That was good enough for him.

Right at quitting time, Puck's phone chimed with Kurt's ringtone. He dug it free of his locker as he swapped out of his coveralls. "Hey," he said. 

"Hi," Kurt said, sounding miserable enough that Puck was put instantly on edge. He hadn't known so much pain could be wrapped up inside one word. Kurt sounded ready to take a knife to himself.

"Hey. What's up?"

"I had the worst day ever and I've been sitting here trying not to throw up."

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Puck said.

"I can’t send a car for you."

"Okay," Puck said. "I’ll take a taxi?"

"I... all right, that’ll work. I’ll just put it on my personal card."

Puck frowned. Kurt sounded upset about S.H.I.E.L.D.'s car service, of all things. Why? "What’s up?"

"My boss yelled at me. I basically wanted to die. He hates me, thinks I’m stealing from S.H.I.E.L.D., and... oh my god, he probably knows about the champagne. And I did take that! I thought it was okay! I saw someone else do it!"

"Kurt, breathe," Puck said. "Breathe. I’ll be right over."

He sniffled wetly. "Tell the taxi to wait, and I’ll come down and give them my Visa, okay?"

"I run a hundred miles an hour. I’m pretty sure I can just hop over a street when I hit a red light, if I jump soon enough and it’s not too big. I’ll be right over."

Kurt was quiet for a second. "You’re going to run all the way here for me?"

"Yeah. It won’t be that far for me, really. But have food, I’ll be hungry."

Kurt half-laughed, half-hiccuped. "I’ll have food. Thank you, Puck." He turned away from the phone. "No, stay, Finn, you don’t have to leave tonight. I just need a hug." There was another pause. "And thank you for that, but I meant from him."

Smiling, Puck kissed the phone, noisily so Kurt could hear it, and said, "I’ll be there soon. And seriously: food." He hung up and saw a co-worker watching his conversation. "Are you really going to say anything to the dude who benches big metal boxes and could run your ass down if you tried to cause any trouble?" He grinned, saluted him without waiting for an answer, and took off toward Manhattan. He wasn't even sweating that much when the doorman checked him over.

When the locks on Kurt’s door started clicking open, Kurt flung it open in a rush of emotion. "You are the best and you’re always the best and right now I’m imagining you yelling at my boss for me and it’s the best thing I’ve ever seen."

_Like I yelled at your old dad,_ Puck thought. "Come on," he said, and scooped Kurt up even though it was gangly and awkward. Kurt kicked the door closed and laid his head on Puck’s shoulder, which didn’t help with their arrangement. At least Kurt felt light.

"The best," Kurt repeated as they settled onto the couch. Puck shucked his coat and threw it over the nearest chair.

"I hugged him," Finn said as he leaned over the counter separating kitchen and living room. "Didn’t really seem to help, but I hugged him."

Kurt twisted around to smile at Finn, though he still looked shaken and weepy, and said, "It helped." He snuggled against Puck like he was trying to burrow into his side. Puck had the distinct feeling that he was staying there that night, and that getting laid wasn’t part of the deal.

"We should invite Rachel over," Finn said when he came from the kitchen with big, sloppy sandwiches. "Then it could be all four of us."

"That'd be nice," Kurt agreed as Puck tried to figure out how to eat his sandwich without getting mayo in Kurt’s hair. "I'm sorry. I probably sound ridiculous. I just have a really scary boss."

"Just a little," Puck said after working through a few big bites. "Hey, this is the guy who was gonna throw us in jail or mindwipe us. We know he's scary. You don't have to convince us." He thought back to that night when they'd been threatened with execution, imprisonment, or new lives. "It's actually pretty weird that you work for him, now." 

Kurt managed to laugh against Puck's chest, though it was a weak thing. "Until today, it was easy to forget all that."

"Because he likes you," Finn suggested.

"Commander Fury doesn't like anyone."

"Well, he doesn't _hate_ you," Finn said. Kurt seemed to accept that much, at least. Cool, then. Progress.

Puck slung his arm casually around Kurt and continued eating with the other hand. He could get used to this: free food, comfortable furniture, and with a warm armful of Kurt slumped over him like a blanket. Maybe he should make more of a point of coming over, even if it was a hassle to get back to Brooklyn. 

That comfortable bliss didn't last. After a few more bites, a big glob of mayo slid off Puck's sandwich and landed on Kurt's head. Puck froze, and met Finn's eyes above Kurt. Finn looked terrified.

"Let's take a shower together!" Puck said, too loudly. "It'll be hot!"

Kurt twisted around to look at him. "I thought we were inviting Rachel?"

"Nuh uh," Puck said. "Getting naked is the best way to cheer up, right?"

"Oh god," Finn muttered. "I'm going out. You have an hour." Grumbling, he walked to the front hallway and slammed the door behind him. After a short pause, he knocked.

Kurt rolled his eyes and stood, even as Puck tried ineffectively to grab for him. He could have held him in place, but that would clue Kurt in for sure. As was, he might remain unaware that Puck had dirtied his hair. "Here's your jacket," he said as he handed it to Finn, "and your key."

"Thanks. Uh, bye. Again." 

The door closed and Kurt returned, amused. "You're both acting weird, you know."

"Just trying to distract you," Puck said and shrugged. He knew he should hurry them toward the shower, but he couldn't help himself. "So, does he really feel what you feel?"

"Only when it gets really intense and we're close, or he's already linked in," Kurt said. "Why?"

"Just checking. I'm glad he left, because that would've been nasty."

"What exactly would 'that' be?"

Puck grinned and scooped Kurt up again. Kurt squawked at the sudden manhandling, but adjusted himself into a comfortable position and let himself be carried into the bathroom. "What I'm about to do to you?" Puck said, dark and throaty. "Finn's not invited to the party."

By the time Puck had Kurt gasping in the shower, flushed pink with the warm water and the pleasure of Puck's mouth around him, he was pretty sure that Kurt hadn't noticed the mayo landing in his hair. That was him, Noah Puckerman: a problem solver. Give him something to punch or ask him to get someone off, and he could practically earn himself a Nobel Prize.

"Puck," Kurt gasped, then coughed as the stream of water hit his open mouth. Unwilling to let Kurt be knocked off-course when they were so close, Puck grabbed him around the waist with the arm not already busy between Kurt's legs and adjusted their angle. The twitching in Kurt's thighs stopped as he let his weight be supported, and he was left with nothing to do but moan, focus again on Puck, and come. Tension fled and a slow, satisfied smile took its place.

Puck hadn't been expecting Kurt to tug Puck up, sloppily kiss him, and then drop to his knees to return the favor, but he wasn't going to complain. He stroked Kurt's slick, soft hair once as Kurt worked him, and then kept his hands safely away. Kurt needed to be able to pull his head away from Puck at a second's notice.

The heat and pulsing shower head had Puck peaking sooner than he would have liked, but then, it had been four days since he'd visited. Jerking off didn't satisfy him the way Kurt could. As soon as Puck's thighs tensed just so, and he groaned at just the right pitch, Kurt pulled his head away and finished Puck with his hand. Puck came hard against the wall, which was made of sturdy enough materials that it didn't dent, and sighed. "Thanks."

"Thanks for running over," Kurt said. He looked a little ridiculous by that point. They needed to use cooler water, next time; Kurt was heading into boiled lobster territory. "Come on, we've got a timer before _someone_ gets back."

After drying themselves, Kurt chose a big, fluffy robe rather than day clothes. "I have another one," he offered when Puck began to grab for the jeans and t-shirt he'd worn upon arrival. "If you want to stay."

Puck hesitated, felt the thick terrycloth of Kurt's sleeve, and shrugged. "Why not?" It was comfortable, and he didn't always have to play the badass there.

They never did see Finn again that evening, though they heard him return to putter around the kitchen. They'd retreated into Kurt's room and were slack on the bed. 

Puck inhaled deeply and smiled. He remembered the sharp words with his co-workers, and they were true: most guys didn't appeal to him. He didn't like sweat and musk and heavy stubble. But at the same time he liked how girls' hair would smell like flowers, but how Kurt's smelled like citrus or a clean, sharp winter. It wasn't feminine, wasn't macho and nasty, but was just Kurt. Puck dug it.

"If you wanna come out to Brooklyn," Puck said as Kurt drifted on the edge of consciousness, "there're tons of concerts. Some of the bands are weird, but there're a lot we'd both like."

"Nice," Kurt murmured. 

It sounded like he was talking in his sleep. Puck wasn't sure whether Kurt would actually remember this or not, but he kept going. "And hey, did you know there's a whole Broadway show with just Billy Joel music?" Puck hadn't realized they made ones like that. 

Kurt looked up. He must be listening. "Movin' Out. You'd want to go?"

Puck didn't get the appeal of a lot of Broadway, with its over-the-top numbers with unfamiliar rhythms, but he knew pop culture. He knew that New Directions had given him joy like hardly anything else in his life. "Yeah, let's do it. Are there any others I'd want to go to?" His fingers traced patterns in Kurt's hair, which was silky after it had dried. It hung loose over his forehead without product. He looked young, like when they'd first come together.

"Um. Well, there's American Idiot."

Puck knew that name. "Get the fuck out, they made a Green Day musical?"

"Mmmhmm. And there's Rock of Ages, which is all, well, rock. From the 80s."

Broadway had this kind of stuff? He'd been missing out. "We're going," Puck said. "And let me know any other shows you'd think I'd like."

Kurt perked up more. "You'd die at Avenue Q and The Book of Mormon. They're completely inappropriate and marvelously well done. I know Rent's still playing off-Broadway. You might like that, and... you really want to go?"

"I was in show choir for years," Puck said and poked him in the chest. "I didn't like everything we sang, and I'm not gonna lie, I'd fall asleep if you took me to some of the stuff that you dig. But yeah, if you tell me that I'll like something, I'll give it a shot."

"Okay," Kurt said, looking like he'd been given an enormous gift. "I have my own credit card, I can just put it on that and be fine. It can't be a weekly thing, because they're expensive, but we can go."

"And I'll buy some tickets for live shows in Brooklyn," Puck offered. He knew those tickets didn't come anywhere close to the same price, but that was all right. He could deal with their different salaries so long as it didn't feel like he was being given charity. 

Kurt kissed him, then pressed in close again. He was big enough that it shouldn't be as easy as it was for him to curl up against Puck like a cat, but that flexibility did wonders. "I feel _so_ much better. Thank you." He exhaled. "I just can't get ahead of myself. I mean, they did give me this killer apartment. I have to be worth something to them, right?"

"It's a pretty sweet place."

"It _is_ ," Kurt said. "They would not give a place this nice to someone that they didn't think was worth it. And Fury actually gave me a lot of compliments, if I look back on what he said without becoming paralyzed with fear. Did you know that he thinks I could kill anyone on the planet?"

Puck arched an eyebrow. "Uh, is that really what you wanna be doing, though?"

"Well, no, but he thinks I could, and that's the important part. I just like the sneaky surveillance missions. But still, it was a compliment." Kurt nudged him with his chin. "Work with me on this."

"Got it. So you're kicking ass."

"I am." His fingers tightened around Puck's comfortable, if ridiculous bathrobe. "Thank you so much for tonight, Puck. I'm so lucky to have you."

"Yeah," Puck said with a grin.

Kurt half-giggled, half-groaned. "You're going to make that a thing, aren't you? It'll be our 'ditto.'"

Puck squinted.

"From Ghost. Have you ever seen Ghost? Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze, both looking flawless?"

"I like Demi," Puck said, flashing back to what she looked like naked. Whether she'd filmed that movie at twenty or forty, it sounded like a good time. "Sure, hit me."

"You might even like Patrick in it, too," Kurt said. He clearly did.

"Cool. We'll kick out Finn again and have a movie night." Puck rolled his eyes when Kurt looked hesitant, presumably over poor, wounded Finn. Fine, so Finn had run into the expected angry collateral damage from their investigative work. It'd been a week since the near-gunshot. Finn had to sack up and handle it, or he'd be walking away from that firm sooner rather than later. "We'll get Rachel to take him out and keep him busy."

"Perfect."

"Love you," Puck said.

When Kurt smiled, it was like the teary phone call from earlier had never existed. "Yeah."

* * *

_Dear Wildfire,_

_I'm a lesbian. It's crazy to write that. This letter would have been the first time I told anyone. I've watched the show, and you and Brittany make me feel normal. But my town doesn't think it's normal. So I haven't come out. I seemed so alone here._

_When Brittany dyed her hair, I thought maybe it meant something, like how rainbows do. So I dyed my hair, too. My parents asked and I said it was for Katy Perry. The boys at school think she's hot. But I picked pink for Brittany, not Katy. It felt like I was saying who I was._

_But then another girl asked me if I watched Unmasked. The way she said it, I just knew. I knew she watched for the same reasons I do. I said yeah. And we both just knew we weren't alone. Now I have a friend who I didn't even know was a lesbian, too, even though we've gone to school together since middle school. We're not alone. Because of you._

_They only have your fanmail address on the web site. Can you show this to Brittany, maybe? Since it was her hair. :)_

_Thank you so much. You guys are the best._

_Jane  
Nebraska_

Santana Lopez defined the term 'fierce bitch' in her eyes, and, she was pretty sure, to a significant portion of NBC's Monday viewership. Even so, Santana cried as she reread the piece of fanmail in her hand. 

That was her. She was doing all of that for girls just as lost, scared, and alone as she'd been. Even if their fights against supervillains had fallen way off in the second season in favor of ever more parties, she was still saving lives. 

"Hey," Brittany said, coming up behind her and wrapping her arms around Santana. "You okay? You're crying."

"Here," Santana said and held the letter up to her. "Read this."

Brittany did. Her smile grew with each line and Santana was able to stop her tears by the time that she finished. 

After their party, Sam's friend Peter had posted Brittany's crazy pink hair in the Daily Bugle. Amazingly, people cared. It was just a little blurb and photo in their entertainment section, and yet attention poured in. Other media even picked up the story. Although it took her by surprise during that rush of gossip, Santana later realized the attention wasn't unusual. They were a hit. Designers paid for Quinn and Santana to wear their clothes, with occasional bonuses for Brittany, and they did it because people obsessed over them. There were probably even weirdos writing pornos about what the three girls did when the cameras weren't on. (Santana thought that having bad internet porno written about her meant that she'd really made it, so she was fine with that.)

Any 'character' on a big hit going from natural blonde to a shocking new color would get attention, of course. The episode itself didn't air until next Monday, but Brittany's hair had already entered the pop culture consciousness. Just as promised, a stylist had taken it back to blonde right after the party, with distinct pink undertones that a safe bleaching treatment couldn't strip out. When Brittany saw the nation's reaction, though, she laughed and had big, dramatic streaks put right back in.

Apparently, the nation had assigned meaning to that pink hair that none of them ever intended.

Brittany set down the letter and studied a pink lock of hair. She smiled.

"You're a symbol of hope, babe," Santana told her. 

"I know I can just wish and have stuff happen," Brittany said, which was a reductive if not entirely inaccurate summary of her powers. "It's funny, but I didn't even realize I was wishing for this."

"Neither did I," Santana said. Every time she got a fan letter like that, it took her by surprise. She'd signed that contract for fame, fortune, and paid tuition and housing. At most, she'd expected to fight occasional bad guys and save a dozen lives here, two dozen there; New York was a hive of superheroes and she wouldn't be the only person getting batsignalled. Before their pilot aired, not once had she thought about all those millions of viewers who weren't immediately facing death and destruction but might need a hero all the same.

Santana kissed Brittany. Her fingertips traced her features, then dropped to the soft swells of her breasts, and then her strong hips. She remembered being so scared of such a simple, loving act, and how she'd pushed Brittany away whenever she'd wanted it to mean more than Santana was ready to give. Even kissing behind a mask required her to work up her courage, and now here she was: Unmasked, for everyone who wanted to see.

That was great, it was inspiring. 

But it didn't stop the double standard from hitting her in the face the next day like a damn sledgehammer.

TMZ had broken the story of Quinn Fabray and Steve Rogers' supposed budding romance, and how rumor said she was stringing along both him and Thor. Photos splashed with TMZ's watermarks showed Quinn and Steve walking into some church last Sunday. The article called her Miss America.

While Santana knew they were platonic, it still left her unsettled. At first she couldn't explain those feelings. Was she concerned for Quinn? No, that wasn't it. She was pretty sure that Steve Rogers was the world's oldest virgin, and would come in his pants or just pass out at the first sight of a nipple. He wasn't exactly a threat, and Quinn could take care of herself, besides. Was it that Thor might cause trouble, since she'd blown him off and now it looked like she was trying to hook up with his teammate? No. From all accounts, the guy was well-intentioned and honorable, and he'd accept any decision she made. 

So why was she staring at that article with a frown on her face?

Struck by a sudden hunch, Santana typed two names into TMZ's search box and began some comparisons. She and Quinn had tons of results together while she and Brittany had far fewer, but Santana had expected that. Brittany wasn't a lead, got less screentime, and was mostly ignored by photographers after an unlucky few had been hit by chaos explosions. 

Quinn and Thor, though, had nearly as many stories as she and Brittany did, with barely a week between them and the party with Thor's raven. Quinn and Steve, in just a couple of days, had racked up nearly as many. Put together, there were already more results for Quinn and her boys than for Santana and Brittany.

_They're both Avengers,_ Santana told herself. _They're way more famous than either of us. People want to hear about those guys no matter what the story is._ She could almost believe that, too. But some small, little sliver of her knew that her love life was seen as niche. Less important. The second Quinn made eyes at someone, even if only in the eyes of the tabloids, that was a hot story. 

_No. They're just Avengers._ Determined not to let her good mood get ruined, Santana closed the site and didn't let herself think about any other explanations. If she started making out with the Black Widow, it would get just as much attention. It would.

Hours later, Brittany was off flying around town in search of perfect Mexican takeout. For a city that had every cuisine in the world, it had proven surprisingly difficult to find a place that made perfect tamales. Brittany sometimes got overwhelming food cravings, but pad thai or caramel apples were easy to find in their neighborhood. Once she'd determined that nothing in the immediate blocks satisfied her tamale needs, she'd turned it into some sort of epic quest. It had been a while, and so by then, she was probably nosing around Queens or the Bronx.

Santana didn't mind. It would be nice when Brittany returned, but until then she would enjoy her privacy during a rare afternoon off. It was a treat when they told her that she didn't have to film at all, no explanation required. 

She had the heat cranked, as she was only in a ringer tee and panties despite the grey, icy weather outside. (No bra. Bliss.) Snacks were strewn before her as she flipped through terrible television, but she'd still cram in whatever food Brittany eventually brought home. It was a day for being a big, lazy slob and Santana reveled in it. Later she'd have to clean up so their stylish apartment looked appealing once more, but everyone deserved a day with empty wrappers in front of them.

Her phone buzzed at her and Santana fumbled for it. Maybe Brittany had found food. No, she quickly saw: it was Tommy, her producer, and he'd sent her an email.

_Take tomorrow off, too, unless you want to do something really fun. We're going to eat up a lot of footage on the Avenger boys this week._

Oh.

* * *

"Spill," Santana said, days later.

Artie blinked owlishly back at her. "About?" 

She twitched her fingers against her mug. The two of them were mostly ignored inside the busy coffee shop. Santana had been filming again and so she'd needed to ask for an hour of privacy. Now that she'd gotten it, she didn't know how to begin. Artie was busy and his time was precious, and so it had been lucky that he'd been able to meet her.

Haltingly, words came. "I signed a seven-year contract with NBC, and so did Quinn. She's doing okay with it, I guess, but now I feel like... I don't know. Like it's a collar."

"Kinky."

"I will throw this on you," Santana said, lifting her mocha. When he stayed obediently silent, she lowered it. "Maybe signing a giant contract right at eighteen wasn't the smartest thing I ever did."

"What's the problem?" Artie asked.

The Santana Lopez of Lima, Ohio wouldn't have answered him. The Santana of Gramercy, Manhattan barely hesitated.

She wouldn't call Artie close, but they had somehow settled into a real friendship during their return to New York. Even though he had a fancy apartment that NBC loved (unlike some of their other old friends), Artie himself seemed the same as ever. He hadn't even touched superheroics, choosing instead to focus on inventing and entrepreneurship. The closest he came to the heroic world was occasional contracting for S.H.I.E.L.D., but it was all for profit. He was a businessman through and through, and kept the normal schedule and open availability to match. It was a lot easier to stay friends with someone who didn't disappear because of aliens attacking or some terrorist plot. And compared to those four over at the investigative firm, well... Artie just fit into Santana's new life better than they did. He'd stayed friends with Quinn, as well. It was just easy.

"I get fan letters, you know?" Santana began. "I get so many letters from girls who tell me that I inspired them to come out, or to get away from people who weren't good for them." She swallowed. For a few of the letters, she could remember the exact color of their signature. Pink gel pen, blue ballpoint. "Some of them said they'd decided not to kill themselves."

"And this is a problem," Artie slowly said.

"Does it sound like a problem? No. That's freaking amazing. The whole deal behind this show is that I'm being me, right? Unmasked." She sneered as she said the show's title. "Except this season, there are a lot of days when I don't even feel like me any more. Or like who I am is worth paying attention to."

Artie began peering around the coffee shop and Santana blinked. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for the real Santana Lopez. I'm sitting with some girl who stole her face and it's really weird."

She leaned over and smacked the side of his head.

"Ow."

"I'm being serious, Tonka Truck. Did you ever think that you were second best because of that kickin' set of wheels? Well, at least people don't think your marriage should be up for public vote. Comprende?" She saw a waitress walking by and snapped for a chocolate chip muffin.

"Oh. Got it," Artie said with a lopsided smile. "Yeah, sometimes you can feel like nothing more than a label, huh?"

"Pretty much." Santana tapped her fingernails against the table and waited impatiently for her carbs. "And I'm not just talking about the Quinn stuff with Ken Dolls Number One and Two. I don't get to dress myself any more, they're telling me how to talk so I make a better... I don't know, stereotype? And what am I going to do, get in Tommy's face and yell at him about it?"

"Isn't getting in people's face and yelling at them pretty much your favorite thing to do?"

"You're a funny guy, Speed Racer."

"Weren't we just talking about annoying stereotypes?" Artie asked. He stood up to her more now that they were friends, she'd give him that much credit. When Santana nodded in what might be apology—she wasn't even sure—he relaxed and continued. "Have you talked to Quinn?"

"No."

He didn't tell her that she should. Smart man.

"Ugh. I don't even know what answer I want to hear," Santana said and started ripping into her muffin when she got it. She had signed a contract and she was lucky to have landed the role that she did. The last time she'd seen Tina, at Rachel's big stupid party, her hair looked like it'd been chewed on by angry hamsters. A few pointed questions had revealed the dangers of discount hair products, and that was something that Santana never had to worry about. She was living the high life while the investigative foursome crammed themselves into an office that, at one point, probably had people peeing in it. In a lot of ways, she _was_ lucky. The ways she wasn't just really, really sucked.

After downing a huge mouthful of muffin, Santana leaned forward. "Okay, I don't want to talk about this any more. Distract me. Tell me about your life." Not everyone had their personal itineraries broadcast on a major network every week.

"But you told me last time that you don't want to hear about my life, because everything about me is inherently depressing." Artie frowned. "Remind me why I came here today?"

"Sorry."

He snickered. Apparently, he'd learned not to take her seriously. "My life isn't always easy," Artie said. "There have definitely been some sleepless nights. Not from fun stuff, even though... well. Trust me, this face and that loft? It could get a whole lot of ladies."

"Yeah, I still want to throw my coffee on you."

Artie snorted. "But do I have a girlfriend? No. I could, sure. But I've got time. I'm focusing on stuff with my business and taking some classes."

"Where?" Santana asked, curious. Living in Tribeca like he was, NYU would be the most convenient, but she'd never seen him around campus. Granted, it was a big school.

Artie ticked them off on his fingers. "One class at NYU. It's in a building you'd never, ever go to," he added, apparently having noticed her hesitation, and Santana nodded. "One grad seminar at Columbia, and then I'm doing a distance thing at MIT."

Santana blinked. "They let you enroll at more than one school at a time? Since when?"

With a proud smile, Artie said, "Since Reed Richards and Tony Stark talked to the schools and said I need to take these specific classes to help them. I'm kind of a genius and it's kind of awesome."

"Huh. What're you working on?"

"Well, remember how our parents—our birth parents—were working on studying that cube thing to try to get power out of it?" Artie frowned. "And obviously, uh, that didn't go very well."

With two facility assaults that had resulted in a complete overhaul of the first Tesseract research project? And the bloody death of all its original researchers? That was an understatement, yes.

"Well, they still need to come up with new power sources on a major scale. Tony and Reed are working on the main pieces," Artie freely admitted. "They mostly have me designing transistors and stuff, but still, it's helping. It's a huge government contract. Like: the _biggest_ contract. If we do this, it's going to be crazy money."

"Oh. That's kind of neat, I guess. Watch out for creepy shadow aliens?" Not that this had anything to do with the Tesseract, but still, power was power. Better to be on the safe side.

"I think all of us will always be on the lookout for things trying to kill us." Artie raised his peppermint mocha, still capped with an ungodly amount of whipped cream. "To us. Nothing like coming safely out the other side of aliens trying to use you to destroy the entire world."

"To us," Santana agreed, and clinked their mugs together.

"Oh," Artie said as he wiped off a cream mustache. "Um. This might be really bad timing to tell you this, but—"

"But what?"

"But, uh, I thought it would be fun to see Quinn, too, and she's walking in right now and oh, here she is. Hi!"

"Hey," Quinn said, unwrapping her scarf and smiling at the two of them. Artie brightened, and after a second, Santana joined him. Quinn didn't want those guys. It wasn't fair to blame her for anything going on, and the only thing that road would lead to was a whole lot of drama. It'd be fun for the audience but hell on them.

_Besides, you'd be painted as the bitch. You know it's true._

Santana firmly ignored her thoughts. Wasn't she fine with being the bitch, anyway? Stereotype, stereotype. Ugh.

Artie shot her an apologetic look when Quinn went up to order and Santana shrugged. It really, truly wasn't Quinn's fault, and Artie hadn't known that she was asking him there so that she could gripe about the double standard between the two girls. 

"Those girls didn't kill themselves," Artie murmured and Santana nodded at the reminder. Even if the general audience obsessed over Quinn, those letters were Santana's and nothing could take away what she'd done there. 

"Thanks."

"Please don't call me Tonka Truck again." Artie paused. "Speed Racer is fine."

"Noted."

"I hate this," Quinn muttered when she returned from the counter and a trip to the bathroom to wash up. She was carefully balancing coffee, a croissant, and her phone. The latter had her attention.

"Why?" Santana asked, carefully neutral.

"I've told Tommy that I'm not dating them. I'm not going to date them. But now that they finally have someone they really want to hook me up with, I'm like chattel being sold." Quinn crumpled up her croissant's wrapper and threw it on the table. "It's great to know that even with all those letters I get from girls who're making themselves take calculus, that in the end I'm always just a piece of ass to some people."

Santana eyed her for long enough that Quinn's brow rose. "I didn't realize you got letters like that," Santana said. Nor did she realize at what point she'd decided that Quinn was the enemy, instead of just their producers. That was satisfying in her darker moments, to be sure, but was as counter-productive as it could be.

"Lots of them," Quinn sighed. "Lots of girls who have always been told that their face was the most important thing about them, but they want to care about their brain, too." She folded her arms below her breasts and hissed out a long, annoyed sigh, then turned to Santana. "Don't you get letters? It's not like you're taking easy classes. Girls must see you as a college inspiration, too."

After another beat, Santana answered. They were in this together. They had to be, and she shouldn't stand against Quinn when they had common enemies: their producers and the entire freaking whole of modern society. "Most of my letters are from girls who are glad to have a lesbian role model."

"Oh," Quinn said. She smiled. "That's nice. I'm glad that you're there for them."

"I don't think I will be, if Tommy gets his way. I'm pretty sure he wants your big straight romance to take over my icky lesbian one," Santana said. She'd tried to say it with a sneer, like a joke, but it hurt too much. Her voice choked despite herself.

"What?" Quinn asked, eyes wide. Lips slightly parted, she looked just on the verge of speaking as she searched through her memories. Her jaw clenched, then she pried it open and spoke. "I can't believe it, but you're totally right. That's what they're doing, isn't it? They want romance. They want _straight,_ marketable romance. Oh my god, Santana, I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"But you've still probably wanted to punch me."

Santana shrugged and didn't deny it.

"I've been sitting in classes talking about privilege and intersectionality and ugh, I didn't even see what was going on right in front of my face. I really am sorry."

"I'm the one who isn't being paraded around like a piece of meat," Santana granted her. Wanting to shuffle their gays off to the side was bad, but so was trying to pressure a woman into a relationship, which Santana was almost certain their producers were outright doing by that point. At least she'd gotten to choose her partner freely. "Okay, it's totally settled. We need to get back the feeling we had in the first season. Right?" Ah, that first, magical season when they'd fought who they wanted, worn what they wanted, and dated who they wanted.

"Totally." Quinn held up her hand and Santana shook it. Only then did the girls realize there was a third person at that table, and that he'd been silent all that time. "There's no need to hush up on our account, Artie."

"Um, I realized that there was no possible comment here I could give that wouldn't be wrong in some way, and so I just kept quiet," Artie said. "But if we want to talk about funny internet cat pictures or fusion bombs or something, I'm so in."

Santana managed to laugh and so did Quinn. They were heading into serious holiday season, Santana told herself. Everyone got emotional during the holidays. Their problems were real, and they'd have to figure out how to stop the producers from railroading them and everything they cared about, but things would look up. Even if the two of them had to stage a freaking' coup if NBC kept treating them as Barbies, things would look up. "Check you out," she said to Artie, who never would have bit his tongue during high school. "You really are a genius."

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

When Burt answered, it sounded like he was smiling. "Hey, kiddo."

Finn had told him about how much Burt missed him, and so Kurt had done a better job of calling his family. Finn was the star son for actually making visits, though. Kurt had managed a couple of short trips out to Long Island, but only that. It was hard to make time when he never knew when work would need him, and it was too easy to fall into spending open evenings at home or with Puck. "I'm totally off work for Thanksgiving and Black Friday. HR promised."

"That's great!" It shouldn't be _great_ that they wouldn't have to worry about Kurt missing one of the biggest family holidays of the year, but his job wasn't predictable. Burt seemed to know what a gift they'd been given. "Okay, what do you want to eat? We'll be sure to have all your favorites. Anything you want."

Kurt saw headlights approaching and swore, then blushed. "Sorry, Dad. My squadmates are just coming back, and I don't know how much longer I can talk."

"Oh, you're working," Burt said.

"Yeah, I'm calling from, um, outside," Kurt said, biting his tongue at the last second so that he wouldn't give away a classified position. He was near the Newark shipyards, which reminded him of Puck less than he'd expected. They dwarfed the facility in Brooklyn so totally that it was like some alien world. Intelligence warned of an attack either near it or the airport just across the Turnpike. Kurt was surprised that a terrorist wouldn't wait a couple of days to really amp up the holiday fatalities, but supposed they should count themselves fortunate.

"Outside? But it's snowing."

Kurt looked up. He'd been feeling the snow melt on his nose and cheeks for nearly ten minutes. "Yes, it is." He adjusted the swords strapped to his back to distract himself.

"Well, get inside soon, okay?"

"Okay," Kurt said, smiling. "Tell Carole and the girls hi." Burt brightened whenever he mentioned those new dogs. Kurt was so happy they'd decided to get them, if that was how they made his dad sound.

"It's just me and them, tonight. Your mom's working, too. I'm eating great, let me tell you. All the stuff she doesn't let me have."

"Dad," Kurt chided, but then his teammates were too close. "Gotta go, love you, bye."

"Love you, too," Burt got out just before Kurt clicked off his phone and shoved it away. Kurt was allowed to talk so long as it wouldn't give away a position or distract him, but he needed to be ready to operate on a moment's notice. 

"We're getting conflicting information," said Alice, the senior of Kurt's two assigned partners. They were the same duo who'd accompanied him on their test against the Secret Service. They knew of how he'd damaged that mission, and so Kurt was overwhelmed by the desire to have them give good reports on him for the next year. "The threat's either stored somewhere in the airport or in a warehouse a bit north."

"If we know that it might be in the airport, is the FBI getting involved?" Kurt asked, ignoring how cold he felt. He'd been put out there early on surveillance, snow or not. He suspected it was punishment, but he completed his job without complaint. After all, he'd been told to follow orders. If that was what it took to impress Nick Fury again, he would do exactly what he was told. 

Sarhaan shook his head. "The backup'd be nice, but they're not prepared for this kind of threat. They might trigger it."

"And what is the threat?"

"We're getting indications that it could cause a dimensional tear," said Alice.

Kurt barely resisted groaning. He didn't like dimensional tears. Creepy, Dementor-like aliens came out of dimensional tears and tried to drain him for energy. Even if he didn't need to worry about that _particular_ fate any more, he had a terrible history with the whole concept. "Genuine or smokescreen?"

Sarhaan blinked. "It looks like a real rip. Who'd bother making that level of tech just for cover? It'd take years."

"No, it wouldn't," Kurt said. "You'd just need a genius. I'm friends with a genius, I know." He still had no idea how Artie came up with some of the ideas that he'd made.

"Well, that's better than the alternative of an actual tear about to rip open," Alice allowed. "But we have to treat this like it's the real deal until we know otherwise." Both men nodded. "So, either someone's about to pull part of New Jersey into another dimension, or some supergenius with a handy toy is trying to hold S.H.I.E.L.D.'s attention here while they do something else. Either way, it's serious business and we need to know the facts."

"Are we evacing the airport?" asked Sarhaan.

"Negative. Telling people to leave an airport could cause a panic, especially when it's crowded. For all we know, movement sets this thing off and all those footsteps leaving in the same direction could do it." Alice checked her scanner. "To be honest, the airport looks like the real threat, but I'm not happy with leaving those warehouses unchecked. They're off-limits to us, though. We've got ownership deets and the Triad warehouse looks like the friendliest in the group."

She fed them the information and Kurt raised an eyebrow. She wasn't kidding; a straightforward crime syndicate was worlds more predictable than the dealers in dark forces who were renting out some of the other buildings. Didn't any of these landlords run background checks? He cleared his throat. "If I might be so bold as to guess your strategy, you and Sarhaan will do a sweep of that public and important building over there. I will slip into those isolated but locked warehouses and check them on my own."

Alice chuckled. "You asked first, this time. We're already doing better than D.C."

Kurt flushed warm under the snowflakes dusting his cheeks.

"But yes," she continued. "Keep in contact, since you're going off on your own. Don't risk anything."

"Though remember, you're the only one who could get inside," Sarhaan added. Some agents got touchy about anyone who performed better than them due to inhuman abilities, but Kurt's partners were nice. He assumed that's why they'd been assigned together. "So, if you _can_ get that intel, get it. They'd catch us sneaking into that building with anyone else, and so we'd need to do a full assault that might set things off."

Kurt hesitated. "Okay, right." Don't risk anything, but if there was any way to get inside, do so. He would follow orders, yes, but he wasn't entirely sure how to make those work together.

"Let's move out," Alice said. "We'll return here in ninety minutes for further direction. Hummel, keep safe. I just sent you the most likely candidates."

His communicator showed a concentration of energy between two buildings. Kurt nodded, mentally recorded the information, and secured his phone. "See you in ninety," he said and hopped into his car. He parked it several blocks away from the warehouses and then took off like a shadow down the street. Ten steps away from his vehicle, when he was confident that no one was watching, he slipped into invisibility and made the rest of the journey under the cover of his powers.

The warehouses were hulking masses in the dark. Some showed their age while some were renovated, but Kurt had no doubt that they were identically dangerous to enter. One might have poison darts and another explosive tripwires, but fatal traps were fatal. He saw the glimmer of a moving security camera and pressed himself against the wall, out of its range. _Damn,_ Kurt thought as he saw his breath was steaming in the cold air. His powers wouldn't protect him against those security cameras anyway, but there might be guards who his illusions could fool. Distracted like he was, he'd forgotten to mask his breath.

Shaking his head, Kurt dropped his illusion and checked a nearby rain spout. It was rusted and old, but attached well enough. He didn't see any obvious traps and so it was safer than trying to maneuver his way through that forest of security cameras. Kurt began to scramble up it, using the slender toeholds of window frames and overlapping galvanized steel siding as the only other support he needed.

Of course they hadn't wired that spout for security, Kurt thought, satisfied, as he reached the roof and slipped onto it. Not even a world-class burglar could have avoided wrenching that old metal free as they tried to keep their balance, so long as they were human. Holding his breath, he checked the roof again and only exhaled when he was sure there were no cameras to see the plume.

God, he loved this, Kurt thought as he made his way toward his destination on silent cat feet. He was phenomenal at his work and it was some of the most important work in the world. Except for those few, rare days when surveillance turned to fighting, his work left him as nothing but excited. He seldom saw blood but constantly discovered life-saving information. And, even without indulging himself on that credit card, the pay was _great._

Now, all he had to do to help wipe out that big black mark on his performance record was to break into warehouses that might be sealed with magic and see if a dimensional tear lurked within. Right. He was going to work up such an appetite for Thanksgiving turkey.

By the time he approached the target, Kurt noticed guards in the alleys below. No one was on the roofs, but they were slick with snow and rife with weak spots. Anyone whose feet didn't always land in the right place would probably crash through. He made his quiet way to the first warehouse, which he remembered looked to hold a slightly higher concentration of energy. There was the chance that he was seeing some sort of warped echo from several buildings over, which was always possible in these situations, but this was his best bet. Kurt began his hunt for an entry point.

Air vents again. Great.

Aside from one squeak when he worked the vent cover free, his entry went smoothly. Kurt inched forward, as he was hyperaware that the path could be trapped, but every check he made was clear. Soon he was descending into the warehouse and Kurt could feel its sudden vast space open below him. He clung to the sprinkler system as he eased out of the vent, replaced the cover, and made his way hand-over-hand on the sprinkler pipes to the wall. Forty feet and bare concrete waited below him if he slipped.

_Yes,_ Kurt thought as he found handholds and made his way to the floor, hidden in shadows at each step of his journey. _I love my work._ It was a little thrilling to know that he was either the best or that he'd suffer for it. He hadn't suffered for it, and so every day of work was another verification that he really was _good_.

Hidden under his illusions, Kurt dropped behind crates and studied his surroundings. The warehouse was mostly empty of whatever it had once held. It was dark along the walls, as the few harsh lights only hung near the building's center. Dust, cobwebs, and rat droppings were everywhere. Kurt wrinkled his nose. He'd assume that either the Triad or some would-be dark wizard would have more pride than this.

Kurt frowned more deeply and looked around him. Something itched his nerves, but he had no idea what. Nothing looked dangerous.

That was it, he realized. That was the exact problem: nothing looked dangerous. This was in the midst of armed guards and security cameras, in a cluster of buildings with deadly dangerous ownership, and it might be the center of that energy source. And yet, he'd been able to waltz in with little trouble.

He should leave.

As soon as he stood to find a way out, Kurt ducked back down. He'd been told not to take risks, but he'd also been told to get intel if he could find it. Even with the easier than expected security, few S.H.I.E.L.D. agents would ever be able to make the entrance he had. If this was the dangerous location and he left it without checking, he might prompt an open armed conflict between S.H.I.E.L.D. and whoever they pissed off when they tried to assault the place. Or an undiscovered dimensional tear might actually pop open and take half of Newark with it.

_Follow orders,_ Kurt reminded himself. He had two sets of orders working against each other, but the second seemed more important. He'd get yelled at more for not following it. He'd also been told to stay in contact, but he was past the point of no return and had to stay silent.

With one short nod to himself, Kurt slipped away from the walls and began investigating the still, empty warehouse with a blade in hand.

His sword rose just in time to counter the metal dart aimed at the side of his head. Kurt gripped his hand tight around his weapon's hilt as his foe stepped out of the shadows. He was tall and athletic, with at least twenty years and forty pounds on Kurt. "Good reaction time," the man said. As he stepped into a slanting moonbeam, Kurt could make out circular marks scarring his forehead like they'd been branded there. Bullseye, then: a hired assassin. A good one. Good enough that Kurt knew him on sight.

"Thanks," Kurt said neutrally. He swallowed once. It left his mouth dry. He could make it out of this, but it would be a tricky thing. "Who hired you?"

"Someone had to hire me?" Bullseye asked. "Maybe I wanted to ask how you get your hair that high. Don't have to assume the worst." He grinned. His teeth were yellowed, and one was missing.

Kurt didn't reply as the man paced around the room. 

"There was going to be an explosion," Bullseye finally said. "A big, pretty explosion. Arms and guts everywhere: American, Chinese, Indian, French. They'd planned a world cuisine buffet in the UN building, and you knew it. Body part goulash."

"So," Kurt said. He wondered when the man would throw something again. He never missed and Kurt would have to block whatever he aimed next. "Doom sent you." 

Doctor Doom had been planning that assault on the UN, and Kurt was the one to destroy the android he'd delivered full of explosives. Given all the time in-between, he supposed it wasn't a surprise that someone had identified exactly who he was. The Doombot had at least five surprised seconds before Kurt cut off its head. It could have transmitted a facial image. And Doom was a genius. It would be an easy thing for him to create an energy signature that could lure in S.H.I.E.L.D.

"Doom sent me," Bullseye confirmed. "He seems like a guy who takes losing pretty hard, you know? He tried to pay me in Latverian whatevers, then in gold, like I'm Fort Knox or a Glenn Beck commercial. Then he offered dollars and I said I'd find you, kill you, and throw your body at his feet."

"You can try," Kurt said. Perhaps he should have been terrified, but he was calm. If he was going to make it out of this alive, then he couldn't lose himself inside emotions.

Bullseye's hand shot forward. Whatever he sent was heavier than the small dart Kurt had deflected, and it had too much momentum to be blocked by Kurt's quick shift of his sword. Something long and thin and deathly cold skewered Kurt below his ribcage. Pain fired, so much that his back teeth and wrists and knees all hurt, but he forced himself to maintain his focus. Throwing the weapon had left Bullseye open. Kurt grabbed a gun from his holster and fired nearly as soon as he was struck. The bullet hit Bullseye's shoulder and blood streamed down his arm.

"You left-handed?" Kurt asked in a tight voice as he checked whether it was worth the risk of pulling out whatever had impaled him. The training telling him to leave it in place was no good; with every movement all he could focus on was the long, thin piece of metal stabbing him in the gut, and he needed to be able to fight. He pulled it out in one slick motion, gasping with pain, and discovered that he'd been attacked with a screwdriver. It was rusty. He'd need a tetanus shot. 

He could feel the warmth of his blood spilling onto his belly. He'd need to end this quickly.

Bullseye's smile was far darker than before. His left arm hung useless at his side. "Nope."

"Oops." Kurt kept his gun trained on the man, but something—a piece of gravel, a nail, _something_ —struck his weapon and sent it falling from his hand. Bullseye had perfect aim. He could have thrown that screwdriver through Kurt's skull if he knew he wouldn't be able to deflect it, but it was no surprise that he hadn't gone straight for the kill. He was a sadist. He liked to see people bleed.

Kurt didn't enjoy the sight of blood, but he drew it when he had to. He didn't enjoy killing people, either, but he had, once. At close range he had the clear advantage, and he'd stay there until Bullseye was apprehended or dead. As he slid around Bullseye, Kurt faded into invisibility. Shadowy versions of him started filling the room. 

"Not bad," Bullseye said as he flung knives at three fake opponents and watched them only impact the far walls. "They didn't tell me this part."

Kurt didn't say anything, for his illusions were silent and he knew he could be tracked by sound. Forcing himself to ignore the searing pain where he bled, Kurt crept toward Bullseye's injured arm and raised his sword. Bullseye wouldn't be able to react quickly with it hanging limp like that, and Kurt knew from experience that his blade could take off a limb. Even this paid assassin would have to pause for a second when his arm hit the floor. And with Kurt's illusions, he did have the upper hand. He just needed to be careful, win, and then get to a hospital.

A tiny fragment of concrete struck his temple hard enough to draw blood, and Kurt cried out. Bullseye laughed and threw another that Kurt barely dodged. "You forgot to fade away what you're dripping, little agent." 

Damn. Sure enough, his chest wound was leaving a trail like a wounded animal. For a second Kurt tried to mask everything he'd left, but it took too much concentration under his injury. He needed to be able to react in an instant to Bullseye's throws or the next weapon would lodge right into his brain. Kurt dropped his illusions, knowing the blood spots made them useless, and went in for the kill.

Kurt was better than Bullseye up close, and for a few seconds victory was nearly his. The man dodged, spun, and lunged for the gun that Kurt had dropped. Kurt lopped off the end of the barrel with one stroke when it was pointed at him, and then the ends of Bullseye's fingers with the next.

The man didn't scream, even as his four fingers above the top knuckles landed on the floor. They bounced. "You'll pay for that," Bullseye said. His eyes glittered.

"Should've lied about being right-handed," Kurt said breathlessly as he tried to cut off Bullseye's arm again. "You could've had me aiming for your left hand." With Bullseye's right hand mangled and his left shoulder pulped, he had to have lost his throwing skills. He was still big, strong, and dangerous, and Kurt needed to finish it, but at least he could see a safe ending. He'd knock Bullseye out and turn him in, and there'd be no need to kill him.

Bullseye kicked another piece of concrete up off the ground and sent it flying toward Kurt's forehead. It wasn't a perfect strike—that would have lodged itself two inches deep—but it cut a long gash above Kurt's eyes. Damn, Kurt told himself. No, he did need to kill Bullseye, and do it before he was blinded with his own blood. Even injured, the man was too big a threat.

His swords were edged in adamantium. They could cut through anything, and now they were going to cut through Bullseye's spine. Kurt didn't like to kill. The one time he'd done so, it was to stop a man who was ready to launch a chemical rocket across the Hudson. Even with all the lives he'd saved in New Jersey, Kurt couldn't stop thinking about that man's dying eyes. For a solid week they'd haunted his vision. 

How long would he picture Bullseye's corpse, Kurt wondered as his sword arced toward the man's neck. Nothing could fight back adamantium. He was about to have another corpse on his record.

His sword cut through a thin layer of skin and rebounded. Reality seemed to slow. _My swords can cut through anything,_ Kurt thought dumbly. _Anything._

"My spine's plated in it, too," Bullseye grinned as he grabbed Kurt's hand with his bleeding one. With one strong twist, he angled the sword the other direction and forced Kurt's fist back toward his body. Kurt's sword plunged into his chest without resistance. He felt each slick inch of the metal as it burrowed through flesh and muscle and lung, and came out of his back half a foot higher than it had entered.

Bullseye grabbed the handle and twisted. Kurt's flesh shredded inside him. "Did they not mention that?" he asked.

Pain overwhelmed Kurt. He tried not to cry out and failed.

"You're going to die, little agent," Bullseye crooned. "Bleed for me."

He had to get the sword out of him. Nothing was more important. Kurt fumbled for the metal sticking out of his chest. When his hands closed around it, the edges cut his palms to the bones inside, and then into them. Still, he pulled. But his arms were already weak and he couldn't free himself.

"Cry for me," Bullseye added and twisted the sword again.

Kurt did. Blood poured down his body and his lungs screamed for air. He left footprints as he stumbled and fell against the concrete. His sword wobbled as it stood above him, its blade marred with sloppy red handprints. His mouth worked wordlessly. Choked, wet noises were all he could form. His limbs were heavy and useless, and his body was numb everywhere that agony didn't burn. 

He was going to die.

His vision blurred and darkened at the edges. _No_ , Kurt thought. He didn't have any argument to make, no logic to cling to, nothing beyond the simple denial that this could happen to him at twenty years old. He was bleeding out in a cold, lonely warehouse. Even if someone got him to a hospital, he'd go into shock. He'd flatline. A tag would go on his toe.

He was going to die. His slow, clumsy mouth began to form names. Each one came slower than the one before.

"Can't hear you, little agent," Bullseye crooned as he squatted next to Kurt's head. He patted Kurt's cheek with his bleeding stumps, and didn't flinch. "Bet you can barely breathe. Will you choke first, or bleed out? I'll wait and see."

As the world went dark around Kurt, a spot flashed blindingly bright in his vision. _No,_ Kurt thought again, weaker than before. It wasn't his time. He had a life. He had a good life. He had people he loved. He couldn't leave them.

The bright light flashed like a strobe. Like stage lights coming on. This was no gentle glow guiding him into death. Everyone had lied.

"Nighty night," Bullseye said as the pool of blood spread below Kurt. The light exploded one last time, and then Kurt died.


	7. Frozen

Finn loved having the apartment to himself.

Even when he and Kurt got into stupid arguments over stupid roommate things, Finn was grateful for his home. Where Finn lived was his best option by far, despite his freakout over Puck's visits. His only other real choices were staying with their parents in Long Island (no), dealing with the awkwardness of being a permanent freeloader over at Avengers Tower (ugh), or getting even a dirt-cheap place of his own and watching their company fail to reliably make rent (not cool). The Tower was the best backup, but even if general Avengers drama wasn't off-putting enough, he'd seen how well living apart was working for Mike and Tina. 

Maybe Mike and Tina could live together and made it work. Santana and Brittany seemed to, from the little that Finn heard about them. Still, why risk it when he was living happily where he was? He and Rachel weren't as serious as those two couples yet, as their careers had veered in such different directions and they were willing to go with that flow. Besides, Kurt's building had the best view in town.

The very best time in their home was when his generous brother was so _incredibly_ generous that he vanished on a mission. No arguments over who'd left something out of the fridge, no debates over television channels, no awkward Puck encounters. After Finn spent six straight hours investigating which shop employee was stealing inventory (boring jobs still paid the bills), it was nice to come home to absolute quiet. It wasn't fair that he'd lost his Sunday to work, but at least he could recuperate in peace. And when Kurt was far enough away, Finn even had his brain to himself again.

Finn listened as multiple locks clicked loose inside the door. Finally, he was at the end of the long security chain. The week would be busy and a family holiday loomed, but he'd at least have the night alone. He pulled the door open, juggling some work he'd brought home, and stepped into the darkness. As he fumbled for the light switch, Finn felt something strange. He frowned and pulled free a sheet taped to the wall. Puck or Rachel must have stopped by. They should have just left a phone message.

_Huh. This is weird._ Finn had no idea what he was holding, and he hunted for the light switch again. There it was. He turned it on and stared in confusion at what was in his hand: a photograph of a post-it note. The note said "look down."

_Strange_ , Finn thought as he looked at his feet. He jolted in surprise. Covering the entry hall carpet, unfelt below his shoes' thick soles, were dozens of other photographs. He stared at them, frozen. Finn felt twenty feet tall, suddenly, and they were ants at the bottom of that huge height. Blurry. Indistinct.

Would Puck have left all those pictures, or Rachel? Would S.H.I.E.L.D.? They were the only others authorized to get through that door. 

Finn swallowed and forced himself to lean down. The pictures came into focus as he got near. A dirty cement floor. A hanging warehouse light, seen from below. A corner full of cobwebs. A splash of blood. Finn's pulse sped, and more pictures seemed to leap at him.

Kurt's pale hand, limp against the cement.

His eye, glazed and unfocused. One took up the entire frame.

And....

Finn let out a noise like a dying animal. He tried to bolt free of the horrors carpeting the entry, but the photographs were slick against each other. He slipped and fell. The slideshow filled his vision, then, just inches from his nose. The image he'd tried to flee burned itself into his retinas: Kurt, dead in a puddle of blood, with his own sword jutting from his chest.

There were more close-ups of Kurt's glassy eyes. They seemed to stare at Finn as he cried out again and lunged for the door. His hand was numb and sloppy and he hit the security panel, instead. Locks slammed into place and a voice placidly informed him that a team was on its way. "No," Finn begged as he yanked at the doorknob. He had to get out of there, he had to leave....

The world dimmed. His feet slipped again on the photographs of Kurt's corpse, and Finn fell to his knees. _Kurt?_ he thought as tears welled up. He'd held onto Kurt's mind across a distance before. He could do it again. He had to be able to do it again, because Kurt couldn't be _dead._

His sweaty hands stuck to the photos as he tried to push himself up. Finn nearly screamed as he peeled away the evidence of what had happened. He slammed himself against the door once more, and then stumbled numbly into the apartment. He couldn't get out. He was trapped in there with all the pictures, he thought as he backed away. He couldn't get away from them.

Finn's heels bumped against something and he half-fell onto the couch. He heard the sound of shattering glass, though he didn't know from where. He stayed there, shaking, until the agents arrived.

* * *

"Additional air support is on its way," Carole said into her headset. She tapped her screen a few times, communicating that information to others in the S.H.I.E.L.D. operations room, and then let herself think about what food to pick up on the way home. She didn't have to stay late at work very often, but it was always worth it when she did. She was helping a team get safely out of Mumbai after they'd ruined the plans of a terrorist group with global dreams. Washington and New Delhi were working together. Such a big, coordinated mission was a joy to schedule.

Nearly an hour later she leaned back, satisfied. Everything had clicked into place like a fine watch's gears. Maybe she'd just get fast food on the long drive, Carole thought. Burt wasn't supposed to have that any more, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. He and the dogs would have already eaten by the time she got home.

As she gathered her things to leave, Carole was surprised to see Nick Fury himself enter the room. "Colonel," she said politely. He must be coming to comment on the mission in person. It had been an important one, after all.

Fury hesitated and Carole began to worry. Had she overlooked something? Had an agent been left behind? "Carole," he eventually said, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach.

Her commanding officer would only use her first name like that for one reason.

Carole's knees locked. Her arms tingled. "When?" she asked, and was distantly amazed that her voice didn't waver.

Her son was dead.

Fury's eye was soft with sympathy. "We're not positive. We only learned about thirty minutes ago. We're bringing your son here."

Her mind lurched. "Then Kurt's not dead?" Carole asked. Fury had never said it outright. Was her assumption wrong?

"No, we're bringing Finn," he said. "He was the one who found... there were pictures. We're dealing with someone who was able to crack the security settings on our building, and whoever it was left pictures everywhere." Fury swallowed. "Going by those pictures... Agent Hummel is deceased. And we have lost contact. I'm very sorry. We will of course attempt a recovery."

"He's twenty," Carole said, like that made a difference.

"If you'd like, we can chopper in your husband, so you can break the news to him."

"Kurt's not... you just have pictures?" Carole asked, increasingly desperate. "You don't have _him?_ Pictures don't mean anything, they can be faked! My house in Ohio was filled with pictures of a boy I didn't know until he was fifteen!"

"Carole," Fury said, and actually clasped her hand. "You know this can happen. Again, I'm sorry, but we all know how things can turn out."

For a second she was in a downed helicopter again, with people dead and dying around her. Carole shuddered and felt tears spring free. "Bring Burt," she whispered. Burt didn't have a problem with helicopters, so he could take that ride, and she'd need him there. "Just tell him to come, don't tell him why." He deserved better than to hear about his son's death over the phone.

"All right," Fury said and stepped back. "We'll discuss funeral proceedings at a pace you're comfortable with. With no...." He sighed. "With no body yet, it's not pressing."

_How dare you talk about my son's funeral? His body?_ Carole thought, but bit her tongue. She couldn't snap at her commanding officer. He was only doing his duty, telling her all this. Kurt had only been doing his duty. "Thank you, sir."

"Conference Room F has been set aside for you," he said. "Your family members will be directed there when they arrive."

"Thank you, sir." She was only distantly aware of him nodding and leaving, or of the sympathetic looks she got from the other agents in the control room. Carole walked into the hallway after a few long breaths. The rubber soles on her boots squeaked. A light overhead flickered. She arrived at Conference Room F, took a seat at the table, and waited.

She didn't know how long she sat there, staring at her hands. Her knuckles were white. She needed to trim her nails. Balled into fists like that, her hands hurt where crescents dug into her palms.

Unsurprisingly, Finn arrived first. The agents behind him peeled off as he was directed into the room. "Mom, there were pictures," he said. "I saw what they did to him." He stumbled forward and Carole pulled him close as he broke down sobbing. "Mom, I saw everything. I saw _everything_ , it's going to be in my head _forever._ "

"I'm so sorry, baby," Carole said and wished both of her sons could hear that. How frightened had Kurt been when he died? They'd said they'd lost contact, and so he must have been alone. He shouldn't have been alone.

"I saw everything," Finn choked out and his cries continued until her shoulder was wet and he was exhausted. Once Carole was sure that no more tears were coming, she wiped away her own before Finn could see so that she wouldn't set him off again. He never had been able to take seeing her cry. She directed him into a chair at the table and was relieved to see him stare obsessively at his folded hands; that gave her another minute to collect herself before Burt arrived. Burt had never been able to see her cry, either. The night was already bad enough and neither man needed it to be worse.

By the time Burt arrived, escorted by a man in uniform, Carole had herself under control. "They said they were gonna bring me in, and I wondered if I'd get to go on that helicarrier," Burt said as he walked into the conference room and closed the door behind him. Under his forced joviality, there was a current of fear. "I suppose I forgot that you work in an office on the ground."

"Burt," Carole said.

He looked at where their son was sitting quietly, head bowed. Burt swallowed and didn't look back to Carole until she spoke again. 

"Colonel Fury told me," Carole said. "Kurt was on a mission."

"Yeah. I just talked to him," Burt said. "He's gonna tell us what he wants us to make for Thanksgiving."

Finn flinched and hid from the truth behind his hands.

"It's this week, so he needs to tell us soon," Burt said. "The stores're crowded."

"Burt," Carole said, feeling a few fresh tears spill as his voice grew ever stronger with the need to convince himself that the obvious wasn't true. "Kurt's not coming to Thanksgiving."

"He promised he'd be there." Burt's red eyes dared her to tell him any different. "HR told him he could."

"A mission went wrong, Burt." Carole said each word distinctly. "He's not coming home."

"No," Burt said. His jaw set. "No, you're wrong."

"They told me, they lost contact, he's _gone_ ," Carole said. Anger flashed as she wondered why she had to be the one facing the truth instead of clinging to comforting lies. 

"I can't feel him," Finn whispered to no one in particular. "I keep trying and I can't."

"No," Burt said again, even louder than before. "No, he's just a kid, Carole, this is a mistake."

"It's not—"

"Then where is he?" Burt asked. His hand tore a quick arc through the air. "I don't see Kurt, so how can they know?"

"They _know_ , Burt. And they took Kurt." Nausea twisted within her. A death was one thing, and horrifying enough, but something about how they'd taken Kurt's body was obscene. She'd heard whispered tales and knew there could be a hundred different reasons for it. Carole didn't like to think about any of them.

"They took him?" Burt repeated. "They _took_... why?"

"That, they don't know."

"But then... they... why didn't you stop him?" Burt asked. His lower lip wobbled. "You knew what this place was like. You knew what could happen. You let him join."

Agony stabbed keenly in her chest. "I didn't let him do anything," Carole said. Was Burt really blaming her?

"You should have told him!" Burt said. His whole face was red, now. "You should have warned him! You knew, Carole, you knew!"

"My son is dead and you think I'm responsible?" Carole asked. Rage and pain and sorrow piled so heavily that she felt numb under it all.

A lightbulb exploded overhead. Glass shattered in every framed print hanging on the walls, moving down the line like bullets hitting water. The floor shook below their feet. _STOP IT,_ Finn nearly screamed into their minds. Both parents turned, shocked, and saw Finn's eyes as violet supernovas, unbroken by iris or pupil. Fingernails scratched against the conference table. His hands glowed almost as brightly as his eyes.

Finn trembled. Office supplies began to swirl in a tight circle around him. A staple remover veered off and embedded itself into the wall as Finn choked out a low, desperate cry. "I saw," Finn said, and the pens and notepads landed on the floor like dead birds. "There were pictures, I saw what they did to Kurt, I saw everything—"

Burt moaned.

"And then I got locked in there and I couldn't get out." Finn whispered. Carole held up a hand but didn't know if she could approach him safely. She'd never been afraid of Finn's powers before. "I know you're his parents, but I'm his brother and have been forever. He's supposed to be in my head." Finn's face crumpled, and with it, a five-foot section of the table. 

Burt looked shamed at his behavior, and Carole's heart ached for Finn, but neither dared move closer. They might be wadded into a shredded mess, too.

"I was happy that he wasn't there," Finn said into the silence. "I was happy that he was gone, because it meant that I had the apartment to myself. And now he's _gone._ " Finn pulled himself in tight, looking far smaller than he was. The remaining lightbulb began to hum, tinged purple.

"Finn," Carole said with a wary look at that bulb, and risked taking a step forward. Her hand landed on her son's shoulder and he leaned his cheek against it. "Finn, honey, no. No. You're not bad for that. Please, don't."

"I'm sorry," Burt said, clasping Finn's other shoulder. He looked at Carole as he said it.

Finn's shoulders slowly relaxed and the lightbulb faded back to pure, harsh white.

Silence fell over them like a shroud and Carole found that she was numb under it. Little had been internalized before she'd had to shove everything aside. She knew pain would burst inside her for a very long time, like disturbing undiscovered mines. She'd take a wrong mental step washing the dishes and something would remind her of Kurt. She'd be sitting in a car and would break down over a song. A year from now, a smile would vanish in the face of sudden tears.

"There were really pictures?" Burt asked.

Finn nodded and it seemed to become real to Burt. He looked around, panic mounting, and his mouth opened and closed uselessly. "This isn't... I have to feed the dogs," Burt said, swallowing. His face was patchy, and looked sticky with half-dried tears.

Carole, staring, wondered how he could care about a thing like that. Kurt had been his son first. He'd been enraged and broken, and now he suddenly cared about the dogs?

"They don't... they're all alone," Burt said and began to pace. "They won't have food in the morning. We're all they've got, we can't just leave them alone. We're supposed to look out for them, we promised we'd look out for them, and—"

Oh. It wasn't about dogs. Carole stepped over and caught Burt's hands as his words began to spiral. "We'll go home," she said softly. 

He nodded, his eyes screwed tightly shut, and repeated, "We promised we'd look out for them."

"We did." She pulled him into a hug. "We'll look out for them."

"They're still so little," Burt said and broke down again. Each sob seemed to tear out another bit of his strength, and soon Carole was holding a shadow of her strong, determined husband.

As Burt cried, Carole shuffled them back to Finn. He was still sitting at the destroyed table. Something behind his eyes looked very old and unlike the boy she'd known before that night. At least they'd stayed brown after he'd ripped that room apart, rather than returning to a dangerous violet. "Finn, honey, come home with us tonight. You can stay there as long as you want."

Finn nodded and stood silently. 

"Let's go," Carole said. It felt like she was back in the operations room, directing agents during a crisis. Burt was a mechanic and inventor, not a soldier, and Finn was still her baby boy. Even if it was unfair, she was the one who had to keep a level head and be there for everyone else. When agents saw the wreck Finn had made of the conference room, Carole was the one who explained it, and she was the one who had to drive them a long hour back to a house on Long Island. 

The radio sat silent during the entire trip. She knew that music would remind them of Kurt. Her car was sized to fit four people comfortably, and the empty seat felt like a black hole. Snow fell. Burt and Finn watched it while Carole watched the road.

The snow tapered off by the time they returned home, and the night was still warm enough that it hadn't stuck to the sidewalks. _Good_ , thought Carole in the detached way she sometimes dealt with trauma. _We won't have to shovel._ It was a quiet trip into the house, which Burt had dutifully left dark before he left. He'd probably delayed accepting the ride from S.H.I.E.L.D. since some part of him knew what news he'd be flying toward.

Though they didn't coordinate it, the trio turned on far more lights than were needed. Bad memories could lurk in shadows. "Come on, girls," Burt said quietly and roused the sleeping puppies. They were just hitting a gangly stage in their growth. They looked like teenagers. "Why don't you go outside again, huh?"

He lead them into the back yard and shut the door behind him.

"He's crying," Finn said after a long beat of looking at the sliding glass door, and the black curtain of night beyond it. "He doesn't want us to see."

Carole nodded. That wasn't a surprise. "How are you doing?"

"I want to throw up. All the time." Finn hugged himself, jamming his hands into his armpits like he was trying to warm up from freezing weather. "The pictures showed everything and I can't stop thinking about them." He took a deep breath, and for a second Carole worried that he was about to vomit right there in the front hall. "Mom, there was so much blood."

A wave of nausea swept over her and Carole was nearly sick, too. She knew that Kurt had grown since they'd first met, and that he only looked small anymore in comparison with Finn, but her memories were anchored back in his sophomore year. She couldn't help but picture that smaller boy dead, left broken by whatever had happened to draw out 'so much blood.' It was a kindness that only Burt had been given memories of Kurt's childhood through the adoption program; she didn't know if she could handle picturing Kurt as a tiny child, dead in a red puddle.

In unison, Carole and Finn turned to the sliding glass door. Burt probably was picturing that, Carole realized. And if Finn had turned with her, that meant that he was in her head. "Finn," Carole said, "I need you to not read my mind for a while. All right?"

"Okay." Finn was usually so good about leaving people to their thoughts, but she supposed she couldn't blame him on that night. "Why?"

Carole retrieved a folder she'd been handed as they'd left the S.H.I.E.L.D. building. "They gave me some information on what happened. I don't know how specific... there might be things that you don't want to know."

"Oh. I'll go brush my teeth, I guess." Finn retreated quickly to his hallway, and the bathroom they kept stocked for both—

Carole closed her eyes. No, that bathroom was just for Finn, now. He'd be the only son to visit. Kurt's bedroom door would stay closed and dust would settle inside. 

She settled into a chair and opened the file. If she put off reading this, she might never look. Carole didn't want to know, but she needed to. With a grim expression, Carole began reading the details of what had happened that night in New Jersey. _Newark. It should have been somewhere more glamorous, if it had to happen. Paris._

Her classification level was high enough to read about what had led to Kurt's death, although some particulars were redacted. Carole got pulled deeply enough into reading that she didn't hear Burt and the dogs coming back inside, and he had a chance to see what she was holding before she noticed him standing there. "Put that away," Burt said. "I don't want to see it. I never want to see it." He exhaled and more tears trickled. He wiped them away. 

"It's late," Carole said quietly. "You should go to bed."

"I won't be able to sleep." He looked down. A long, shuddering sigh seemed to come from deep below his feet. "I just... they _took_ him."

"I know. It's awful." He'd never prepared for this, Carole realized. He'd never really accepted that Kurt taking this job could be deadly. The worst thing that he'd thought could happen was that Kurt's job would keep him away from family meals.

Well, she supposed that last one was true.

"What if they're wrong, Carole?" Burt asked, pleading. "What if they just... what if they just took him? And they need to get him back? Rescue him?" The pictures Finn had seen didn't seem to matter.

Hope could be a dangerous thing. People could cling to it past when they needed to be set free, and sometimes people strangled themselves with that narrow rope. But for some, at the right time, it helped. For that night, Burt could hope. Eventually he'd need to let go and face the terrible reality, but for just that night, he could pretend that Kurt was alive somewhere and in need of rescue. "They've already started looking," Carole said and tapped the file. That was true. A few lines from Kurt's communicator had been retrieved, and they had strong suspicions about who was behind the night's attack. 

If only Kurt were alive to be rescued, it would be a great start. 

"Really?"

"Yes. It's right here in the file." They would attempt a recovery, in the official phrasing. Carole knew they'd recover a 'what' if they managed anything, not a 'who.'

But Burt could approach that knowledge in stages, when he was ready to handle it.

"Okay," Burt said. "I'm going to... I guess I'll go to bed."

"Night, Burt. I love you."

"I love you, too." Burt walked a few steps away, and then turned back and asked, "Tell me he's okay, Carole?"

She'd let him live in hope, but she couldn't lie about something so important, and Burt saw the truth in her eyes. His hastily assembled hope began to collapse.

"HR gave him Thanksgiving off," Burt said brokenly and walked down the hall.

Carole watched him vanish around a corner and her hands tightened around the papers. She had to get this file finished now, or she never would.

They suspected, with seventy percent certainty, that the attack had been launched by Doctor Doom. There was only one reason that Doom would target Kurt. Carole had no idea that he'd undertaken such an assault earlier that year, and she read about it grimly: slipping into a hotel, identifying a Doombot who would target the UN, and making his way free of the hotel with the 'bot's head on his belt for evidence. 

Kurt had been 'uniquely qualified' to be the man on the ground in that mission. No one else in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s entire roster could be assured of identifying a Doombot like he had, thanks to his illusory powers, and being utterly certain that he was stopping an attack rather than assassinating an innocent, honored diplomat. More than a hundred people had their hands in that pie, from catching a whiff of Doom's plans to securing Kurt's entrance into the hotel. It wasn't as if Kurt had been expected to do everything on his own, but he'd known that when it came time to implement the mission, it had to be him on the front lines. There was no other option.

Carole set that page aside and thought about what the fallout would have been if they'd been wrong about that 'diplomat.' Every route led to open war.

If he'd needed to die to stop a war, she could deal with it. That was honorable. Grieving parents of fallen soldiers wrapped themselves in that comfort every day. But this had the whiff of revenge to it. That meant Kurt didn't _need_ to die. He'd been held up as the sacrificial lamb for a mission involving a hundred people, just because he was the person who had it play out at the end.

"What's that?"

Carole jolted as she heard Finn behind her and put a hand against her racing heart. "Finn."

"Is that something I shouldn't look at?" Finn asked, gesturing to the file.

"Yes," Carole said. "It's... it's classified."

Finn nodded. "Yeah. Okay. Um, I was thinking that I should tell people. Tomorrow."

Carole opened her mouth and closed it without a word. Someone had to tell them, yes. She'd been about to say that it wasn't Finn's responsibility, that he was just a boy, but he wasn't. He was a grown man of twenty.

"Yeah. I’m twenty. When I turn twenty-one," Finn said quietly, "that'll be my first birthday alone, I guess. Even if I didn't know what my birthday really was for a couple of years." He caught her reaction and looked down. "Sorry. I'll stay out of your head. I just...."

She didn't need telepathy to know that he wanted not to feel alone. "I know, baby," she said and held out her arms for him. He'd grown up in another family, and now he was the only one of them left. Everyone from Finn’s childhood had been ripped away. 

"I saw the pictures, Mom," Finn whispered against her hair. "I don’t think they’ll ever get out of my head."

Carole swallowed. "They won’t," she said. "They won’t ever leave. But they won’t always be at the top of everything you think and do and remember. This’ll always hurt, but you won’t. You won’t hurt for every second of every hour, I promise." She knew, for that was how it had gone with her first husband who’d landed on top of her as a corpse. The first day she hadn’t woken up thinking about him, she’d felt guilty. By the second, she was relieved.

Finn tightened his grip around her. Carole rubbed his arms, wondering who would hold her when she needed to break down. She couldn’t lean on Burt, because she needed to be his rock. Maybe she’d hug one of the dogs.

"You should try to get some sleep," she murmured. "I know you don’t think you’ll be able to, but eventually you’ll wake up and it’ll be morning. Take the puppies to your room." 

"Okay. Good idea." He squeezed her just tightly enough to hurt, and then stood and called for the dogs. They stumbled over their own feet with the excitement of getting attention. Their happiness seemed almost obscene.

Once she was left alone, Carole looked at her phone and read a waiting message in silence. S.H.I.E.L.D. was sending a car to escort Finn around on his visits, along with a partner. It was strange, but not unwelcome. She wondered how they knew he was going. _Good_ , she decided as she set it aside and walked slowly down the hall. _At least Finn won’t be alone tomorrow._ When she got to her bedroom, she set the alarm. She and Burt had both been told not to come in that week, but Finn should be ready when his car arrived. The red light of the alarm bored into her vision and Carole realized she’d been staring at it for nearly a minute before she set down the clock and climbed into bed.

Burt didn’t move and his breathing remained steady. At least he’d been able to sleep, Carole thought, unsurprised to find that his pillow was wet. He must have cried himself out. Finn would probably do the same.

She didn’t cry. Carole stared at the ceiling, her eyes dry, and thought back to a downed helicopter and a dead husband. Though it had gone wrong, the purpose of that mission was important, and it would have saved so many more lives than had been lost. She'd often wished that it had gone differently, but she always knew in her heart that the mission was worth it.

She needed to believe that Kurt’s was, too.

* * *

"Where have you been?" Mercedes asked as Finn walked through the door the next morning. Their office looked fake, he thought as he looked at monitors and gel pens and lamps that needed to be dusted. Everything looked weird and fake. "Finn, you've been late like six times this month because you stayed out on Long Island. Or you didn't know how to set the alarm in a Tower room. Or whatever."

"He stays late when he comes late?" Tina countered, shrugging. "But Mercedes is right, we’ve got a ton to get done today. You probably spaced it since your family's here, but the three of us all have to fly out of the city on Wednesday."

Mike looked ready to chime in, but Finn spoke first. "Uh, Kurt's dead." Maybe he should have been more gentle with that, but he didn't know how. His brain felt like it was sliding around inside his skull.

Tina and Mike went still. Mercedes stared at him. "What?"

"I didn't... I'm not really here for the day. Mom and Burt are um." Finn frowned and rubbed his forehead. "They're really sad. And I didn't want to leave them, but I had to tell people in person. So I came here first, since you'd expect me to work. But I can't." He was babbling. Finn swallowed hard.

"This isn't funny," Mercedes said fiercely. Tina's eyes shone.

"No, it isn't," Finn agreed. He saw a stack of post-its and froze, and then forced himself to start breathing again. The back of his hand itched. He scratched it hard enough to score red lines in his skin. "I walked into my place last night and it was covered with pictures of how he got killed."

From the stricken look on Mercedes' face, that had been the wrong thing to say. He should have apologized, or soothed her, or sympathized with their pain. He shouldn't have shared the evidence that Kurt was really dead. Maybe so, but Finn had to talk to other people that day and he already felt exhausted. He still had to tell Rachel and Puck. Then he had to go back to his parents and learn what it felt like to be a family of three. "Can you tell people?" Finn asked. "Not Rachel or Puck, 'cause I'll do them myself, but that's probably as much as I can handle."

Mike looked stunned. His usually expressive face was blank with shock. "Yeah, sure."

"Is there going to be a funeral?" Tina asked. "Will we get to go to it? They didn't let us go to Sue's."

Mercedes only trembled.

"Yeah, there'll be one. There's not a date yet. It’ll be after Thanksgiving, so you don’t need to cancel your trips or anything. And yeah, they'll let us go. They don't have... him," Finn said, and swallowed again. "It'll be empty casket, so anyone can come. Hey, I need to go before Puck hears this from someone. I can wall him in with TK if I have to, and he might snap and take out a building otherwise. I'm probably going to be out for the rest of the week."

"Sure," Mike said and scratched above one ear. He looked lost. "How are you doing?"

"I don't totally know yet," Finn said. He scratched his hand again and it started bleeding. _I saw what the inside of my brother's chest looks like_ , Finn thought. He halfway expected them to react in horror before he realized he'd only thought it to himself. "Uh, when I do figure out how I'm doing, I might need to take some more time off." He smiled apologetically. "Sorry."

When Finn finally said the word, Mercedes burst out crying. Tina pulled her into her arms as she sniffled, too.

"Go tell them," Mike said after looking at the girls, and then nodded to the door. "They need to know."

"Yeah, I'll go tell Rachel and Puck," Finn said. "Talk to you later." He walked out and up to street level, bid farewell by Mercedes' increasingly loud cries. Once inside his S.H.I.E.L.D.-provided car, he told the driver where Puck worked. Emma Frost looked at him and said nothing.

Everyone in his office was probably crying by now, Finn thought. His eyes were painfully dry. Every time he closed his eyes, even to blink, he saw the photographs in front of him again. He tried not to blink. Falling asleep had been agony and he hadn't gotten much real rest.

_You didn't have to do this_ , Emma thought. _They would have informed anyone you asked._

_Puck might snap._

_There are plenty of people on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s payroll who could subdue him, if he did._

Finn shook his head. _They should hear it from me. And I can do it. Not for everyone, but I can do it._

Emma turned to him. _Still._

_I should do it._

She didn't argue any more. They took the rest of the trip in silence, falling into the darkness of the tunnel under the East River and then returning to the midmorning sunlight in Brooklyn. They were right near the docks. All too soon, Finn was getting out of the car and walking mechanically toward the nearest office.

"No visitors without a badge," the receptionist said. "You need to check in over at that office you can see through the window, get safety equipment, and then—"

"It's an emergency," Finn said. "One of your employees. There's um." His shoulders heaved. "There's been a death in the family. I just... if he can come here, I can tell him."

"Sure," she said, concern replacing her near-automated approach to her job. "What's the name?"

"Noah Puckerman."

Her eyes flashed wide. "Is he going to be okay with this?" Everyone around the docks was apparently familiar with Puck's strength.

"Yeah." Finn could see her distrust that reassurance, and didn't blame her for it. "I'll take him out in the parking lot first and tell him there."

She leaned in close. "Our insurance isn't gonna cover him punching any holes through the cars out there."

"I've got telekinesis about as strong as he is," Finn said. "It'll be fine, I can hold him down if I have to." Hopefully he could, for Puck might snap and Finn was exhausted. If the worst case scenario happened, Finn reassured himself, Emma was waiting in the car.

The receptionist stared at Finn for a beat, and then picked up the handset, shaking her head. "Superpowers everywhere. Mom wants me to move out of New York," she muttered as she checked a sheet with phone extensions. "Maybe I do want to follow her to Charlotte, after all. Hi, Frank? Yeah, can you send Puckerman to my office? There's someone here who has a family emergency to tell him about. It's serious, but don't say anything. Okay? This guy says he can handle any, you know... problems when Puckerman hears. Great. Thanks." She hung up and looked at Finn. "He'll be here in a few minutes. The foreman just has to track him down."

"Yeah, sure." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll go outside now, just to make sure nothing starts in here. Can you send him out?" She nodded and Finn walked back into the chilly morning. Small drifts of snow still lingered after the night before, but they'd mostly melted into dirty puddles. It was a grey, hopeless sort of morning. The city in the distance looked like fingerbones clawing at the sky.

It took Puck a few minutes to arrive. He had to clear his throat twice before Finn stopped staring at the Manhattan skyline and remembering a long-ago apartment on the Upper West Side. "They said you'd come by," Puck said.

Finn turned to him. Nausea flip-flopped inside him. When he recognized he didn't know whether it was his or Puck's, Finn stepped firmly back into his own mind and stayed there. This would be hard enough without taking on Puck's pain, too.

"You've never swung by here before," Puck said. Concern filled his voice. There was only one likely reason for a first visit like this. They both knew it.

"Yeah, I had something I needed to tell you. Something that... last night."

"Okay." Puck's jaw clenched so hard that it shook, and then he took a deep breath. "So, uh, why’re you here?"

"Puck...." Finn began. He could see that Puck already knew and that he couldn't accept that truth. Fear rolled off Puck like the stink of rotting garbage, despite trying to stay out of his mind. It was as bad as it had been when Shelby Corcoran was mindcontrolling Puck and he thought he was about to die. Maybe Puck would actually prefer it if he were the one in danger. 

"Why are you here, Hutton?" Puck snapped. 

Finn flinched at the use of his old name. The one they’d shared. "Look, a mission." He closed his eyes for the next words. "It went bad."

"So?" Puck asked. "So Kurt got hurt? That’s... okay, take me to the hospital. Sarah’ll understand when I don’t come home for Thanksgiving. I missed the last two years, anyway."

Finn didn’t say anything.

"Because he’s in the hospital," Puck said. "I just saw him, I just _fucking_ saw him, and so I’m gonna go see him again." His eyes were slick with tears. "I just started here, but the union'll get me some time off. I’ll take it so I can sit in there with him. I mean, if he wants. Whatever he wants, I’ll do." Puck sucked in a huge breath. "If they can't get me time off... if I need to quit, I'll quit."

"He’s not in the hospital," Finn whispered when Puck trailed off.

Puck roared and his fist rebounded off a glimmering telekinetic shield. Finn put it in place just in time and the car underneath only took a tiny dent. "No!" Puck shouted, spinning back to him. "This is bullshit! I just saw him. Everything was perfect. You don’t get to take that away." In Finn’s mind, Puck dripped crimson and indigo with overwhelming agony. Emotions had colors, and some colors were deep.

When Finn stayed silent, Puck stalked toward him. "You don’t get to take him," he snarled and raised a fist. 

Eyes wide, Finn saw that with no actual foe to fight, Puck’s emotions had latched onto the one sure source of pain there: the person delivering the bad news. He threw a shield in front of himself and Puck’s fist glanced off it when he aimed it at Finn’s skull.

"He’s the one thing I’ve done right in my fucking life," Puck said, gasping, as he threw another punch. He was stronger than Finn's shields, and Finn had to retreat further into the parking lot. "The one thing! Why couldn't that last? Who did it?"

"Mom didn't tell me," Finn said. That was the wrong thing to say and Puck's fist rebounded again.

"But you know something," Puck demanded. He was way beyond reason. Finn could see that even without his powers, and when he actually brushed against Puck's emotions his heart was a sucking wound. "How'd it happen? How?"

"You don't want to know!" Finn said and tried to maintain focus, so that his shield wouldn't crumple under Puck's blow. 

"Don't tell me what I want," Puck said, his fist aiming straight for Finn's head. It wasn't really Finn in his vision; it was some shadowy nothing that had taken Kurt from him. But Finn was convenient. "I want him! I want—" An inch from Finn's nose, Puck's fist stopped dead. 

Finn exhaled. He hadn't done that, and from the shocked look in Puck's eyes, neither had he. Once Finn was sure that Puck was under control, he turned to his companion. Emma Frost slid regally out of the car and walked toward them. Telepathy flickered around her head in a soft glow. "You overestimated yourself, Finn. You need to work on that."

"Let him go," Finn said as he glanced at Puck and saw fear beginning to mix with the pain over Kurt's death. "Seriously, let him go, someone mindcontrolled him before and it really freaked him out. You're just making it worse."

Emma didn't release Puck as she walked up next to them. "Noah, I have all the sympathy in the world for what you're going through." One tear trickled down Puck's cheek. "But lashing out at your friend will not help. I'll let you go, but only if—"

"Seriously, he's screaming inside, let him go," Finn said. Puck's terror had begun to outweigh his grief; he was right back on that street in Ohio, unable to move as Shelby threatened him and Sue aimed a gun at his head. "Emma, let him go!"

"All right," she said, with a distinct air of 'your funeral' underlying the words. 

Puck stumbled forward when Emma released him, and for a second Finn worried that he'd snap back into animalistic rage. Instead, his expression crumpled and he fell; if Finn hadn't caught him, he probably would have landed on the asphalt. "No," Puck whimpered as he clutched Finn. Again, Finn remembered that night with Shelby. Puck had clung to Kurt, then. But he couldn't do that any more. Ever. "Why?"

"I don't know," Finn admitted. Fresh misery bubbled up and his throat closed. "He's just... he's gone."

"Who?" Puck asked through his tears and whimpers. "Who thought they could just take...."

"I don't know."

_But he was my future_ , Puck thought just loud enough for Finn to catch. _I finally had one._ The simple, agonized words drew a shuddering gasp from Finn, and that set Puck off anew. He broke down like an injured child and clung desperately to his friend.

Finn had just a second's pained warning before he heard a crack. He yelped on the edge of screaming. Emma stepped forward again and Puck, frozen by her powers, fell backward into an icy puddle. "It's okay," Finn hissed, holding his broken arm. Of course it _wasn't_ okay, but Puck could have just as easily snapped his neck or spine. "It's...." A deep breath sent spears through his chest. Maybe he'd broken a rib or two, too.

It actually did not seem possible for the day to get worse.

"We need to get you to the hospital," Emma decided as she looked Finn over. 

"Let him go," Finn managed. The pain ramped up with each passing second. Damn. He did need to go to the hospital. 

Set free, Puck sat up. He'd never looked so destroyed. Slush dripped off his back.

"Go home, Mr. Puckerman," Emma said. "I know this is hard. People will get in touch with you soon, and everything will be worked out."

"Can I come with you?" Puck asked, sounding as lost as a young child.

"Go home," Emma said. "You've already lost control of yourself this morning. We can't have you around vulnerable patients in a hospital."

Finn tried to argue on Puck's behalf, but it hurt every time that he breathed, now. Talking was hard and thinking was harder. Puck'd be okay, he told himself. Puck could just go home and cry it out, like he had. Emma helped him up, although he couldn't stand straight even with her assistance, and Finn began to make his painful way back to the car and the hospital it'd take him to.

"This isn't fair," Puck said just as the doors closed and the car drove away.

* * *

"Hey," Artie said absently as he buzzed in Mike and Tina to his building. He had to do this soldering now, before he forgot his grand plans for how everything was laid out on the circuit board. Only then could he turn his attention from it. When the knock came, he buzzed them through his private door with a quick slap on the pad. "Just a second." _And done_ , he thought with satisfaction, and wheeled around to face the duo with his prize in hand. "Look!" he said.

The government was giving him, Tony Stark, and Reed Richards a lot of money in the name of national security. (Artie knew that it was to avoid depending upon a creepy, trans-dimensional magical cube to power the nation's energy grid. That was a very admirable goal. Tony and Reed didn't know just _how_ admirable.) Sharply aware that he was the junior partner of the inventive trio by about a million miles, Artie was thrilled to be given any responsibility at all. They had mostly handed him the grunt work while they did the big picture thinking in their big picture labs and factories, but still: he was helping. He didn't want to waste the entire holiday week slacking off.

"Look," Artie said again when they didn't respond and wiggled the circuit board at them. Mike and Tina looked sad and pale, and with a worried feeling Artie set the board down on his desk. "You guys look like someone—"

"Don't finish that sentence," Mike said quietly.

Oh. _Oh._

"Yeah," Tina murmured.

Artie looked down and his brain went to work.

He would have heard about one of the three girls. They talked all the time, and they would have been on the news, besides. So would Rachel; the Avengers earned attention wherever they went. An apprentice wouldn't get a news story for herself, but he knew when the whole team was in danger, and they hadn't been. An incident at the investigative office would still have Mike and Tina being questioned by police, and since it was the middle of the day, that's where Mercedes and Finn would have been. "Sam, Kurt, or Puck?" Artie asked, having quickly narrowed it to those options.

As soon as he said the names, though, he didn't even need to see which one made them flinch. It wasn't the newspaper and it wasn't the dock. 

"I've consulted for S.H.I.E.L.D.," Artie said. Mike and Tina seemed grateful that he was able to talk, to fill up the space between them. "I was there when he came back from a couple of missions. He... he was really good, but I don't know if he realized how serious everything was. The sort of people he was facing." Artie laughed shortly and rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn't, either, I guess." He'd wanted to see how the toys he designed worked and he'd pouted when they'd failed. It was all a big game to both of them, sometimes.

He looked at his desk and rubbed his neck again. That wasn't some simple project, either; it was an energy overhaul of the future of the nation. At some point, without realizing it, some of them had taken huge steps onto the world stage. They were adults. Stuff stuck to you when you were an adult.

Finn had been a kid when he died. He'd gotten a second chance, and popped right back up like a video game character using a second life. "When's the funeral?" Artie asked. For real deaths, there were funerals. Brittany didn't just push a reset button. 

"They took him," Tina said and shuddered. Mike squeezed her shoulders. "I don't know if they're going to try to find... him first, but nothing's scheduled yet."

"They took him," Artie repeated. Took. That was a peculiar word. "I hate to even ask, but then are they sure that—"

"Yeah. They're sure." Mike swallowed. "Finn saw pictures. He saw pictures of stuff. The stuff that happened."

"Oh." They hadn't ever said Kurt's name after Artie had raised him as a possibility. Were they living in denial? Would their composure shatter and crack? Artie didn't want to find out. "I, um. Thanks for telling me. For coming over to tell me, I mean." It was an annoying trip to get from their work to his place, sometimes. At least it wasn't rush hour.

"Of course," Tina said. She leaned down and hugged him, staying in place for a long second. Artie clutched her arms. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and for a breath they were kids again in an Ohio choir room.

"I'm sorry," he whispered right back. She had nothing to be sorry for. But he did, maybe. He was the one who'd woken up their powers, right? He was the one who'd gotten Rachel kidnapped and brainwashed, who'd left Sue slaughtered, who'd gotten Finn shot through the head, who'd gotten Kurt... whatever'd happened to Kurt. Their lives had been okay, back there. Maybe he shouldn't have zapped them.

"We can let you get back to your thing," Mike said, gesturing at the table, "or we can stay."

Jolted, Artie looked at his workbench. He still had so much to do. He ruffled a hand through his hair and puffed out a mouthful of air. "Hey, uh, does everyone know?"

"Yeah." Tina nodded. "Yeah, Finn told us, and we're talking to everyone."

"Okay. Good." Artie stared at all the tiny little components in front of him. "That's good. I, uh...."

"Work's a good distraction," Tina guessed.

"Yeah. Does that make me sound—"

"No." Mike clapped him on the shoulder, squeezed, and stepped back. "We'll all do what we've gotta do. And we'll let you know when we hear more."

"Thanks." Should he be crying? Maybe he should be crying, but Artie felt stunned and nothing more. "You, uh, can let yourselves out." Mike and Tina left together, pressed close, but Artie didn't watch them go. He had work to do. He had so much work to do, and when he was thinking about that, he wouldn't think about anything else.

* * *

"I can come over," Sam said.

"No," Mercedes said and blew her nose. She was glad that she'd thought to hang up a 'closed' sign on the office door. "No, you've got a crazy boss to deal with, you don't need to come over."

He was quiet for a beat. "I never do come over, do I?"

"Sam, this isn't the time, I can't handle a big talk about the two of us right now." Kurt was _dead_ , Mercedes thought. Dead. Gone. And Finn had just dumped that knowledge in their laps and expected them to handle it. They didn't have a funeral, and they didn't even have a full explanation. That was the worst part of all.

"I just meant... I'll come by tonight, okay? I don't care, I'll pay for a taxi, it's fine. I'll be there."

Mercedes closed her eyes and let out a shuddering breath. She did want arms around her, telling her that it'd be okay, and that some day she'd stop hurting so badly. "Okay. Thank you."

"I love you. You know that, right?"

It was exactly what she needed to hear and Mercedes shuddered again. There were just too many emotions inside her. She didn't know how they were all supposed to come out. Tears wouldn't drain enough of her feelings. "I do know, and I love you, too."

"Do you want to talk more, or...?"

"I need to make some calls." Mercedes inhaled, focused, and exhaled. "I have to make these calls."

"Okay. I'll be by later. I'll bring food, so just go straight home and you won't have to leave at all after you get there, okay?"

"Okay. Thank you." Kurt was dead and she still had to think about locking up the office, a full hamper of laundry, and whether she wanted to cancel her plane tickets on Wednesday. How could the world just keep humming along when something like this had happened? Nothing seemed right, and she still had to tell this news. "Bye," Mercedes said and hung up without waiting for an answer.

* * *

"Hey, uh, Rachel?"

Rachel looked up, smiling, when Steve Rogers entered her room. "Steve! You're the perfect person right now."

"Um, before you get started, I need to tell you...." But she would not be denied, and with a sigh Steve let himself be manipulated.

"We need team posters," Rachel said, "and I think it's really important to strike the right image on them. I know posters might just be seen as a promotional ploy by some, but I also think they're a valuable crimefighting tool in our arsenal." She balled a fist and wiggled it at him; he reluctantly followed suit and she adjusted his arm. "If our dominance is reinforced among the public's mind, then that'll cut some crime all on its own. Fewer criminals will be willing to try anything if they know we're waiting for them. Right?"

Rachel had been putting in her time and effort to learn how to be a superhero the right way. But if the right way involved fame as an inherent part of its strategy, well, who was she to argue with success?

This was the best idea.

"I know that, as an apprentice, I might not be included on our promotions, but I think it would also be smart to let criminals know who's waiting in the wings." Rachel struck one last pose and grinned at an invisible camera. "Right?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. called," Steve said, instantly dropping out of his arranged pose as soon as she'd freed him. "Finn was going to come tell you something, but he had to go to the hospital."

Rachel froze. "What? Finn's in the hospital? Why didn't you tell me that right away?"

Steve gestured aimlessly around the room. "You started posing me when I tried."

"I don't... fine! Is he all right?"

"He's going to be. He's just got a broken arm, and a couple of ribs." As Rachel began to loudly ask what had happened, Steve held up a hand. He didn't usually look that grave, Rachel thought, and began to worry more. He was often serious, but not like _this._ "A friend of yours snapped when Finn told him some bad news, apparently."

"Puck," Rachel realized. It had to be. "What... what was the bad news?"

"Being a leader is tough," Steve said after a short breath. "During the war, I saw some bad stuff happen, but I always had to shove my emotions down and be ready to handle whatever command threw at me. I didn't always like doing it. In fact, I usually didn't. But I did, because the mission was more important than what I was feeling."

"Steve, what happened?" Rachel asked, getting an awful suspicion.

He hesitated. "One of the things that I saw was my own best friend falling to his death."

"Steve?" Rachel repeated.

"It was S.H.I.E.L.D. who called," Steve reminded her meaningfully and Rachel covered her mouth with her hand. "Yeah. I'm sorry. I know what you're feeling right now, and that it's the worst thing you think you've ever—"

When Rachel flung herself at him and cried against Steve's chest, he had the sense to stop talking. "I want to see him," Rachel whispered.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. said that they took him," Steve said. "There's no body."

Rachel flinched. "But that's...."

"It's harder when you don't get to see him," Steve agreed. He sounded very far off, and like he was thinking of something a long time ago. "When you don't get that closure." A hero stroking Rachel's hair should have soothed her, but all she could think was that they weren't very good heroes if her friend was dead. "It's hard. I know."

She opened her mouth to say that they should go see Finn, or talk to S.H.I.E.L.D., or do _something_ , but Rachel broke down again.

"I know," Steve said, and let her cry herself out in his arms.

* * *

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Blaine thought as he dutifully took notes, were the days given to his parents. Then, he had classes on ethics and economics: the foundations of the Ivy League public policy concentration that had soothed his wary father. He hadn't yet mentioned to the man that, with Brown's flexible programs, he was actually constructing his very own education on how the arts were supported in America. It paired neatly with the performance classes that were his true passion. They filled Tuesday and Thursday. He was looking forward to next semester's schedule, when those days weren't quite so brutal.

He'd have to work a little harder to establish himself than if he'd gone to a performing arts school. Blaine thought that was well worth avoiding four years of passive-aggressive comments about how most people just treated high school choir as something to do for fun. Unfortunately, it meant that he had to deal with _these_ classes in the meantime.

Blaine squinted at the board, frowned, and erased one of the curves he'd drawn on his notes. He wasn't looking forward to this economics final. The vocabulary was fine, but something in his brain refused to click over and understand how all these graphs fit together. 

His cell phone started playing the Superwoman chorus and Blaine colored deeply as everyone turned to him, including the professor. He fumbled to turn it off, but Dr. Duhra was already walking toward him, his hand extended.

"And who is calling you, Mr. Anderson?" he asked with a smile as Blaine sighed and handed over the phone that he'd forgotten to silence. "Mercedes," he read off the caller ID. "That's a pretty name. Why don't you tell us about Mercedes?"

The students who'd already had to go through this grinned at Blaine. He stood, defeated, but tried to deliver his embarrassment with good cheer. "Mercedes is a friend of mine from Ohio, and now she's working in New York. I'm sorry, I don't have anything juicier than that to share."

"Did you ever make out with her?" yelled Dae-Ho from across the room. When someone was getting Cell Phone Shamed, it was open season.

Blaine raised an eyebrow.

"Probably not, right," Dae-Ho said.

"Tell us some trivia about Mercedes," Dr. Duhra said, gesturing at Blaine like he should know this drill already.

"She has one of the most amazing singing voices I've ever heard and could have gone platinum already. She's busy working with some disadvantaged clients, but at least the people at her favorite karaoke bar get to hear her all the time."

"Very good," Dr. Duhra said and walked back to the front with Blaine's phone in hand. By that point in the semester, everyone knew that when he claimed your phone, you meekly requested it from him at the end of class. Blaine sighed, still blushing, and sat back down. Jill, his seatmate at the small table, shot him a sympathetic look. Out of the corner of his eye, Blaine could see his other classmates bending down to make sure their phones were silenced.

The next forty minutes dragged like a month. Late semester stress must be getting to him, coupled with an approaching holiday and the prospect of visiting home for the first time since he'd left. He was always careful to check his cell and Blaine spent the rest of the lecture kicking himself for forgetting it on the one day Mercedes called during class.

When he slunk to the front desk and retrieved his traitorous phone, Blaine shoved it in his bag without turning it back on. He had his ethics class right after a late lunch and some illogical part of him was convinced that he'd forget to silence it again. Dr. Pankova didn't play around like Dr. Duhra when her class was interrupted.

Ethics was interesting but brutally difficult, like always. She was far and away his most challenging professor. Blaine wanted to impress her, get his passing final grade, and then run away and never see her again. Deciding to celebrate the conclusion of another Monday with a trip off-campus, Blaine caught some of his new friends by the sleeves as they left their class, and they all went off together.

He didn't turn on his phone then, either.

Richmond wasn't in their room when Blaine got back to campus. Blaine saw the note left on his bed: SEE U MONDAY. Excellent: he had the days before Thanksgiving all to himself, thanks to Richmond blowing off his few classes. He'd lucked out by landing a sophomore roommate who already had some bad habits established.

Blaine turned on the television, opened his laptop, and went straight to his university mailbox to see if his group members had sent their paper sections. That deadline was approaching soon after Thanksgiving and he was the one who'd offered to edit everything together. Two of them had, and he dutifully added their contributions to the pages he'd written. Next, he bridged the parts until they flowed. He didn't let himself glance at his personal email as he worked. When he finished attending to school, a favorite performer drew his attention on television.

Four minutes later, at the end of that song, he remembered his phone. Blaine dug it out and thumbed it on, wondering if the one absent group member from his emails had called everyone, instead.

He had eight missed messages. Lord. Bill, the irresponsible teammate in question, had probably accidentally deleted all of his work. Blaine had already developed a keen hatred of group projects. He wallowed in that feeling as he dialed in to his mailbox and brought up the most recent message. If Bill had already figured out a way to address whatever he'd ruined, he might as well be spoiled on that happy ending.

It was Rachel's voice. Mildly surprised, Blaine settled in to listen.

"I don't know if you haven't gotten our messages or just don't want to talk, but... but I'll be around if you do. We're all together for this, and you're all alone, so I just...." She inhaled wetly. "Anyway, you have my number. I'll stop calling, now, and let you decide."

What? Blaine pulled away his phone, frowned at it, and went back to his inbox. This time, he actually looked at the numbers that had called him: it was Mercedes and Rachel, every time.

_Why would those two try so hard to reach me?_ Blaine looked at his laptop. He swallowed, looked at his phone again, and then walked back to his computer. He quickly clicked into his inbox and found the last Facebook message from 'Stephen Menken.' It had been days since a reply, but Kurt had told him that he'd be busy. 

Blaine allowed some fear for that worst-case scenario before he raised the phone back to his ear. Whatever he actually heard would seem all the better in comparison. Exhaling, he centered himself and listened to the message left while he was busy being humiliated by Dr. Duhra. Whatever Mercedes would tell him, she'd said while people were laughing. It couldn't be that bad, some twisted sense of logic told him. His classmates had been amused at his mistake, everyone had been laughing, and so it couldn't be that bad.

"Hi, Blaine," Mercedes' choked voice said. "Um. I'll call back, if you're really not around."

The message ended and Blaine stared at his phone in betrayal. He'd worked himself up only for that?

"Please pick up," Mercedes said in a message left forty-three minutes later, when Blaine had slunk off to lunch with his reclaimed phone.

"I don't want to tell you like this. Please?" she asked. That one was left just as he'd finished his late meal, and was flipping through an ethics chapter to remind himself of what he'd read in a tired haze the night before.

At the end of his ethics class, just before Blaine left to go have fun with his friends, Mercedes gave up on trying to reach him. "I'm sorry you have to hear like this, but... but Finn told us that a mission went wrong. Kurt's not... he's not coming home. I'm really sorry. I'll be on my phone if you want to call."

Blaine stood very still. Suppressed fear began to trickle free in thick, wet streams down his cheeks.

It was Rachel, next time. "I don't know if Mercedes told you, but we don't know when the funeral will be. There's not a." She made a strange, twisted noise. "They took Kurt. S.H.I.E.L.D. might try to find him first, I'm not sure, and so we don't know when the funeral will be." She blew her nose. "We'll let you know when there's a date. Please call if you want to talk."

Funeral. He mouthed the word silently and sat on the edge of his bed, numb.

"Please just let us know that you heard," Mercedes said next. "Facebook or... or whatever. We just want to make sure that you know."

"I can't post this publicly," Rachel said, "to make sure you see it. So please just let us know that you got our messages. Okay?"

Then, Rachel again, like he'd first heard. "I don't know if you haven't gotten our messages or just don't want to talk, but... but I'll be around if you do. We're all together for this, and you're all alone, so I just...." She inhaled wetly. "Anyway, you have my number. I'll stop calling, now, and let you decide."

"I told him," Blaine said as he clicked off his phone. "I _told_ him." The words burst free painfully, followed by a long, choking sob. He threw his phone aside and pressed the heels of his hands to his weeping eyes.

He'd begged Kurt not to join S.H.I.E.L.D. Blaine thought Kurt would get hurt, or worse. He'd known. He'd always known.

But he'd just wanted so desperately to be wrong.

* * *

"I'm heading out!" Quinn called over her shoulder.

"Bye," Santana said as she spooned a glob of cookie batter into her mouth and gave Brittany a thumbs-up. Delicious. Maybe they should skip actually baking them and just eat the batter straight out of the bowl. "Tell your mom hi."

"She needs to fly out here," Quinn grumped as she pulled out her suitcase's handle and kicked at a stubborn wheel. "Like Brit's parents are."

"Yeah, it's way more convenient," Brittany said with a shrug, and began spooning batter onto the cookie sheet. "But it sounds like she wants to show off her new boyfriend."

Quinn sighed. She'd told them that her mom had started dating a vice president at the insurance company where she worked. He was apparently sweet, kind, and hardly looked his ten years older than Judy. Harvey also had two kids from his first marriage. Quinn was all for her mom being happy, she'd made sure to point out, but she just wasn't sure if she was ready to deal with two step-siblings. "Yes, I suppose it's time to go meet the new man in her life. Hooray."

"And you can talk about Captain America and Thor," Brittany added with a smirk as she spooned batter. Santana smirked, too. She loved it when Brittany was bitchy.

"You're funny!" Quinn said as she closed the door for a goodbye.

Santana cackled and stole another spoonful of batter. Brittany's parents were arriving on Tuesday, and they were going to have so much food waiting for them. As an added bonus, the girls had even gotten the week off from filming. "I don't even want to bother watching tonight's episode. I'm pretty sure it's going to be all about big blonde guys slobbering after Quinn."

"You're going to watch," Brittany said as she slid in the sheet.

"Maybe I won't."

"You always watch so you can talk about how great your hair looks."

Santana hesitated, and then shrugged. Brittany was right. She'd watch. "Come on, let's go buy more food before the grocery store goes crazy."

"But I just put in cookies."

"We'll wait for the cookies to come out, eat some, and then go to the grocery store."

Brittany agreed that was an excellent plan, and they followed it to the letter.

No one thought to call them.


	8. The Key

Rachel's best friend was dead, her boyfriend was in the hospital, and her fathers were still on a mission somewhere in Illinois. As she sat in a taxi on her way to New York Methodist, Rachel wondered when she would wake up.

When they'd first moved to New York, all their lives had been perfect, or at least on their way toward it. Even those scrambling to start a company or dealing with J. Jonah Jameson could claim some sort of charmingly seedy romance to their early careers. Everyone believed that everything they were doing was going to work out in big, spectacular ways.

Then it became a nightmare for her to set up one single karaoke party, because everyone had already grown so far apart.

Then she nearly lost everything about herself. Rachel thought that was the scariest thing that any of them would face. They'd made it out of the fight at the Tesseract facility without any permanent damage and after that, they seemed untouchable. For her to nearly have her whole identity wiped clean was terrifying. Rachel thought she'd set the new dramatic bar for their adult lives.

And then Kurt died.

He actually died.

The cab driver had to ask twice before Rachel realized they'd reached the hospital, and that she needed to pay him. She handed him too much money and stumbled out of the cab before he mentioned any change. Her feet were numb by the time she reached the reception desk. They were wet. She must have stepped in a puddle. She'd rushed out of the Tower in yoga pants and ballet flats: clothes for bumming around her apartment, not for slogging through winter streets.

"Finn Hudson?" Rachel asked the receptionist. Her voice shook. "I'm here to see Finn Hudson?"

"Rachel Berry?" the receptionist asked. Too shaken to realize that it was unlikely for her to be known yet by name, Rachel nodded. "We were told you were on your way. He's in 516. Go on up."

That was more convenient than she'd ever expected, but Rachel didn't question her luck. Rachel squished her way to the elevator in sodden shoes and listened to the pounding of her pulse in her ears. The ding of arriving on the fifth floor was achingly loud.

She'd meant to burst in and demand to know that Finn was all right, but the unthinkable happened when Rachel hit the door: her voice failed her. Now it seemed like she should ask about Kurt, but there was nothing that she could ask about Kurt because there was nothing Finn could ever say that would make Kurt's death make sense. Looking between where Finn lay on the bed and the vaguely familiar woman sitting next to him, Rachel managed to ask, "Are you okay?"

"Puck broke three ribs and my arm," Finn said, gesturing to his cast. His voice was soft. She walked into the room and closed the door behind her. "It wasn't on purpose, but...." The sharp noise he made when he breathed too deeply made it clear that 'on purpose' or not scarcely mattered.

"How are you _doing_ , though?" Rachel asked and glanced again at the woman by Finn's side. She was achingly beautiful and wore next to nothing. Even in the midst of her grief, Rachel disliked her on sight. One of the X-Men, she remembered. The one helping Finn with his telepathic training.

"Everything hurts," Finn said. "I just want to wake up."

"I thought the same thing," Rachel said, gently squeezing the hand on his good arm. At least it was his left arm in a cast, not his right.

"I saw everything," Finn said. "I saw pictures of everything. What they did to him."

Rachel felt sick in a hot, sudden wave, but then remembered what Steve had told her: it was hard when you didn't get to see the final outcome. That sense of not knowing could eat at a person and leave them forever wondering just how bad things had gotten by the end. "Can you show me?" she asked, not daring to meet Finn's eyes.

"What?" Finn asked, clearly shocked.

"I want to know. What my imagination is coming up with has to be a million times worse. I just want to know."

"No, you don't." Finn winced and quieted again. "You _don't_ , Rachel. These will never, ever get out of my head. Ever."

"But if you can send thoughts and emotions into my head, surely you can send pictures—"

"What, of a bunch of mangled _chest?_ " Finn's lungs started working too hard, and he flinched as his ribs moved. _Do you really want to see what someone looks like on the inside, Rachel? See it every single time you close your eyes?_

"I didn't...."

_Because I do! That's what I see!_

Pale, Rachel watched as Emma leaned over Finn and took his hand in hers. They stared into each other's eyes for a beat, and then Finn's lids closed.

"Don't worry, he's not seeing those pictures," Emma explained. "He's asleep. I asked, he accepted, and now he's under while the two of us have a little chat." Emma stood and Rachel was struck by how much taller and stronger the woman was than her. She felt like a grubby child coming in from the playground in comparison. It was difficult not to shrink under her gaze. "Finn is in a vulnerable state right now, and you need to not push him further."

"I know," Rachel whispered. The pain over Kurt's death— _death_ —weighed on her anew. "I've never dealt with anything like this before. I've known people who died: Ms. Sylvester, and then all the people in Lima who were in the way when Shelby came. But they weren't close to me. And my parents... now I have new fathers that I love, too, so I miss them but it's just different, and I'm sorry." She still felt guilty over the people Shelby had killed, as she'd hunted for their group and caused random destruction through the town, but it was nothing like what Rachel felt that day.

"And I sympathize with that, but you need to not make it worse for _him._ " Emma sighed. "Put bluntly, you can rip out your own hair all you like, but he's someone who needs to not be pushed."

Whatever was going on, Rachel had the distinct feeling that it wasn't about friend versus brother or the respective depth of those emotions. Emma Frost seemed very serious about limiting what Finn was exposed to. It had Rachel curious under her grief. She looked between them.

Emma hesitated a beat. "There. We're both shielded, now. He won't pick up on either of our emotions, even in sleep."

Rachel touched her temple. She didn't know if she liked the idea of this woman (and her ridiculous cleavage; they were _mourning_ , for god's sake) doing things to her brain.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. asked me to work with Finn for a reason. Some of you children, yourself included, aren't really on their radar. You have powers, fine, but no one expects those powers to cause any real trouble." Emma caught a flicker of something moving across Rachel's face or mind and smiled. "Offended? It's the simple truth. You're no real threat. At most, you could shatter the supports of a building and bring it down, or do the same to a nuclear plant's outer shell. Although I expect that you'd take long enough on that one that you'd be stopped well beforehand."

Rachel frowned. 

" _That_ is not the sort of threat that deserves attention." Emma exhaled. "Artie, Brittany, Santana, Quinn, and Finn are the ones whose powers truly concern S.H.I.E.L.D., and have earned a 24/7 watch on what they're doing in their lives." Her eyes flicked to the side and back, and she added, "And Kurt."

"I don't understand." She'd thought their surveillance had ended when the threat from the Tesseract did.

"You don't understand how a genius inventor could be a global threat?" Emma asked archly. "And right now those girls aren't strong enough, but I know someone whose powers over ice and water mean that he could freeze the oceans if he so desired. All three girls have the worrisome potential to wreak global chaos, whether through ice, fire, or... whatever crazy thing Pierce wants." Emma smiled slightly. "NBC discovered that it was easy to get their stars' superheroic events authorized by the authorities so long as they provided full records on their behavior. They still have no idea why everything was _so_ smooth for that program.

"Finn, well... if you haven't heard horror stories about psychics yet, you will. He's not as strong as a woman who picked up a particularly vicious passenger, but she didn't start off as powerful as she became." Emma studied Rachel. "Did none of you ever wonder why Kurt's—"

Rachel flinched at his name.

Emma repeated it deliberately. "Why Kurt's apartment had that office in it that was big enough for a bed? Did he _ever_ bring work home? He was _always_ going to be assigned a place big enough to hold Finn, and S.H.I.E.L.D. just didn't make it obvious that they wanted both boys in that building. If Finn knew that every time he held that security keycard, they were checking to see if his powers were growing out of control... well, he might become a little emotionally unstable." Emma sighed. "But now his old home looks like a bomb went off, thanks to all that uncontrolled telekinesis after discovering the pictures. I suppose we'll be telling him, since they do still want him there. At least he'll know why he's being assigned to a new free S.H.I.E.L.D. condominium even without his brother."

"Oh." Rachel stayed quiet, but wondered why Kurt had been an agent if they'd been so worried about him. More than that, she wondered why his powers were seen as dangerous. Hers could bring down a building, apparently, but the only attack Kurt had at a distance were bullets.

"If you tried to break into somewhere that was heavily secured," Emma said, "they'd bring you down long before you caused any real trouble. Not too long ago, Kurt had a gun drawn on the President inside the Oval Office. That's why they're so worried about him. He can't kill a lot of people, but it's almost impossible to stop him from killing one, even if they're very important. S.H.I.E.L.D. knew he should be on their side."

Rachel swallowed and nodded, and tried to figure out what Emma had said nagged at her so much.

Emma folded her arms under her chest and looked suddenly tired. "I know you think this sounds calculating and cruel, but people are alive because of hard decisions made when they needed to be made, Ms. Berry. I make them, too. So does any leader. You'd best get used to the idea. And don't push Finn until I'm sure that he won't start ripping apart rooms again if he gets upset."

Just as Rachel was about to nod and excuse herself to drive Finn back to his parents', she realized what Emma had said wrong. "Ms. Frost," she said, perfectly polite, even as her heart ached. "Could I ask you to... could you please use the past tense with Kurt?" Her voice wavered and she struggled to steady it. "Soon I'll be taking Finn back to his family, and it won't do them any good to have me lose control in front of them. I just want to make sure that I can maintain my composure." She balled her fists, nodded, and waited for the words: was. were. 

When Emma only raised an eyebrow, Rachel's hopes flared impossibly. If she didn't want to talk about Kurt in the past tense, and if she had connections inside S.H.I.E.L.D.... "Ms. Frost," Rachel said, just above a whisper. "Do you not think that Kurt is dead?"

"Oh, he's dead," Emma said, with the ease of someone who didn't really care about him.

Hot tears beaded in Rachel's eyes. It felt like she'd been struck in the gut.

"But after seeing what I've seen in my life," Emma continued, "and knowing that they couldn't recover a body, I'll continue saying 'is,' rather than 'was.'"

Emma Frost's blue eyes chilled Rachel to the bone and she felt as cold as when she'd stepped into the icy puddle outside. No matter what exactly Emma was implying, it felt horrible. "I have to take Finn home," Rachel said, too loudly. That woke Finn back up and he drowsily blinked at her. "His parents will be worried about him, I'm sure someone told them that he was in the hospital."

"You should take him home," Emma agreed. Her voice dropped. "If you'd like, I can shield this in your mind, so Finn doesn't stumble on it before he's ready."

Rachel stared at Emma, thinking of their group's poor history with mental blocks, but then pictured what Finn might do if he learned that he'd been scanned daily as a potential threat for the last two years, or that one of the leaders of the X-Men didn't think Kurt's death might _stick._ She nodded.

"Done. I'll call Finn later this week and continue our sessions." Emma added, "I really am sorry for your loss, Ms. Berry. Believe me, I know all too well how much it hurts."

Rachel watched her go, swallowing. It was all she could do to rouse Finn from bed, collect his prescription of enormous ibuprofen tablets, and call a taxi to drive them the long way out to Long Island. There wasn't room in her mind for anything but grief after she saw Burt and Carole's destroyed expressions, and she spent the evening crying with them. In that house, Rachel couldn't even think of the boy who'd broken Finn's bones.

* * *

The last time Puck threw criminals though the front doors of a NYPD precinct station, he'd wrenched the entrance open and then chucked his captives across the floor, sliding like hockey pucks. This time they crashed through the actual doors. The small glass windows shattered, and the frames around them splintered and cracked to let the fleshy projectiles pass.

Puck stared after them, his face a mask. His jacket was still wet against his back. It felt like the temperature had dropped further from a cold front; any colder, and the cloth might freeze to him. 

Police officers rushed out, guns drawn, and lowered them when they saw Puck standing there with empty hands.

"They just killed a woman on Dikeman, near Ferris," he said flatly. "Broad daylight, in a yard of school buses. I tried to get there in time, but it was too late." He wasn’t any use at all. He’d heard screams as he wandered, alone and bereft, and he’d tried to save another life from ending. She still died.

_Died._

"Bring him in," an officer eventually said. "And send a car to go check out Dikeman."

Puck let himself be led in without protest. "Champion," he said when they asked for his name, which was ridiculous. When had he ever been anyone’s champion and not fucked it up? 

"Your real name," the officer said.

"Noah Puckerman." He held up his hands in surrender and saw red streaks running across them. "It's not hers. Test it if you want." About to say that it must have come from when he'd thrown the men through the doors, Puck realized that there was no way for that to be true: he'd never touched them after he'd let go. Only then did he see the cuts on his palms. Puck frowned at the bloody gashes.

"You had to defend yourself?" the officer guessed. "When you came at them? I recognize blade patterns."

Puck stared at his hands for a long beat, trying to remember, and eventually said, "They pulled knives out of her. I was too late. And then... yeah. I guess when I came at them, they cut me."

"It looks like self-defense," the officer admitted, "but we can’t have rogue heroes throwing people through doors. That glass ripped those guys apart, at least a little. Plus, replacing doors isn't in our budget."

"They ripped her apart," Puck snapped and the officer raised an eyebrow. "Sorry. Look. The Avengers’ll vouch for me. I’m legit." He was exhausted, suddenly, and he wanted to go home.

"You think I have a hotline to Tony Stark?" the officer snorted.

Puck shrugged. It wasn’t his fault the guy couldn’t follow up on the help that Puck had offered. The officer gestured for Puck to wait as he checked through files, and Puck did. Now that he knew his hands were shredded, they hurt. Focusing on that pain kept him from thinking about anything else. He reveled in the delicious ache until a ringtone shattered the air.

"Uh huh," the officer said into the phone. "Right. You’re sure? Oh, really? Well, good." He hung up and turned to Puck. "They found the body just where you said, and it had stab wounds. A witness in the office missed a lot of it, but he saw someone running in 'super' fast to take on whoever had the woman pinned. He'd already called 911, too. Another car was there from dispatch and everyone's stories matched up."

"About a hundred miles an hour," Puck answered to the unasked question about just how fast was 'super' fast.

The officer nodded with the easy familiarity of a man from a hometown of superheroes. Puck doubted they always let vigilantes walk free, but interrupting a murder was probably a big enough thing to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Well, it looks like you check out enough to let you loose. I’ll want to get your contact information," he said and passed over a form. 

Puck began filling it out and frowned as a few scabs on his palms tore open. Blood smeared on the paperwork and the officer wrinkled his nose. "I’m clean," Puck said.

"Still nasty, though. Thanks," he said, and took the completed paper with his fingertips. "We might call you for a follow-up. And don’t rush people like that," he warned just when Puck felt like he was being dismissed. "You might get more than hurt next time, and they might get startled into lashing out more than they were going to. This neighborhood’s got a better murder rate than its reputation says. I don’t ever want to start living up to that rep."

Puck went very still. Could someone have died _because_ of him? "You don’t think I made them... no, they were already going after her when I got there. I swear." Was it his fault that she died? _Died. Died died died._ His breath came hard.

"No, calm down. That’s what the witness said, too: it was too late for her. She was already screaming when you ran in. But just don’t be dumb in the future, got it?" He saw Puck’s surging emotions and frowned. "Hey kid, what’s up?"

_Died_ , Puck thought again just before he burst into tears.

The officer leaned back like Puck was vomiting blood. "Jesus, kid! Learn to take criticism! You threw goons through a door, you can—"

"They killed him," Puck choked through his heaving breaths. "I told him I loved him and he got me an apartment key and they killed him." His throat closed tight. "Finn came to tell me that a mission went bad and Kurt wasn’t coming home and now he’s dead. I don’t get to see him. They took him. A mission went bad. That’s all I get." That was all he would ever get.

The officer gaped uselessly, struggled for words, and exhaled. "Soldier?" he asked.

That was close enough, and Puck nodded.

"The, uh, line of duty is honorable," the officer said, though it sounded like he knew that would be poor comfort. "Kid, if this is what’s driving you right now, then just don’t. Don’t do crazy heroics until you’ve got your head back straight on its shoulders, because from how you look right now you’re probably trying to find a way to join him. Got it?"

Puck nodded, though he hadn't really heard anything the man had said. 

"Just... do you have a job?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, good. I lost a friend on the force about six, seven years back. Okay, not really a friend, but we got along, and...." The officer waved off his rambling words. "Work helped."

It was worth a shot, Puck guessed. It felt like he was making that decision through a drunken haze, or after two all-nighters in a row. His body felt like baggage. "Okay. I'll go to work tomorrow."

"Good. We'll call you if we need to ask you about anything. And I'm sorry."

"Thanks," Puck said and walked out the front door back into the November chill. His jacket was still damp. It felt like ice against his back. He walked home.

Finn didn't call. That wasn't a surprise; Puck had broken him. Neither did Rachel. She'd be fretting over Finn.

Puck sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the wall.

They were probably kissing and hugging and comforting each other. Warm hands, soft words: all the things he no longer had. Everything had been perfect, and now everything was ruined. Just like that. Bam. Gone.

He didn't even get to say goodbye.

Puck showed up at work the next day. The other dockworkers whispered and speculated, but no one approached him to ask. Finally Puck's phone rang, but if he started talking to people he'd start crying and then he'd never stop. He deleted the messages unheard, and when someone was on the other end he told them he didn't want to talk. The foreman had to chase him away at the end of the day. Puck didn't go to Ohio that Thanksgiving. He worked and he sat deliberately alone in his home, miles away from anyone he really knew.

It didn't help.

* * *

On the day before Thanksgiving, Carole's phone rang. "I don’t know," she said, turning to look at Burt and Finn. Burt was still a walking shadow, and Finn so fragile that his entire body seemed like it should be casted, rather than just his arm.

"What?" Burt asked. "Who is it?"

"My work. They think they know something more, and want me to come in." She swallowed. Her hands flexed around the handset. "About what happened to Kurt."

Burt looked down, flinching like he’d been struck. Finn sucked in a breath and clearly wished he hadn’t. A faint purple glow appeared at his side and put pressure against his cracked ribs, aiding the bandages there. "Go find out," Burt said, though, and Carole nodded. "I'll order pizza, to have it here when you come back. Enough so we can have leftovers tomorrow."

Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, Carole thought. Leftover pizza would give the day all the respect it now deserved. She got in her car, drove down a road crowded with holiday travelers, and soon stood in front of Nick Fury. He was there, of course. The agency was his life.

"When his partners lost contact," Fury said after a quick recap of the basics, "they did a quick survey of the warehouses to see if they could get in. We’d thought that Hummel would be the only one to get past security, but it was easier than expected. A lot easier. Some of the warehouses were legitimately dangerous, and they had to sneak past those, but getting into this one... the defenses were largely an act." He exhaled.

"It was a trap," Carole added dully as she looked through the report.

"It was a trap. And they did find signs of struggle inside."

"There was blood," Carole said. She didn’t want him to dance around the matter.

"There was blood," Fury confirmed after a second’s pause. "They took a sample. When Hummel vanished and his apartment was breached, things looked bad and we suspected this was more than a simple abduction. We ran a quick check on those photos before we called you. The chemicals hadn’t set for more than thirty minutes, and there were enough angles of him that matched up to our database appearance scans... well, what they showed looked like a sure thing."

"And now it is," Carole said, not bothering with any hope.

"The blood from the warehouse is a DNA match. Deeper analysis proves the photographs are as real as we first thought." He handed over a printout. "And whoever got into that apartment wanted to be found."

Carole stared blankly at the pages. She wasn’t a computing expert, and it took her a while scanning the thing until she recognized any patterns. Buried inside long, encrypted strings were sections in all capitals: overrides from the assailant, who was so skilled that he was able to hack what everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. thought was unhackable. The letters of 'doom' and 'latveria' were scrambled inside each section like a simple anagram. Confirmation. A blatant signature.

An arrogant signature, one that left her cold.

"Why did he take him?" Carole whispered. "What is he going to _do_ with Kurt?"

Fury breathed in, out, and said, "Best case scenario, he just wants to deny Hummel a proper burial."

That was the best option? Carole wanted to cry. "Worst?"

"There are a lot of worst cases," Fury said. "We’re working on them now. The upside is that Agent Hummel probably wasn’t ever on his radar, not _really._ Given Doom’s history, this has to be about the agency, not about Hummel. That lack of focus on him might leave some openings for recovery."

"It means that Kurt died to prove a point to you," Carole said in a thick, choked voice. It was exactly like she'd suspected and feared. Now she knew. Only belatedly did she add, "Sir."

"That’s likely accurate." Fury didn’t say the word 'sorry,' but it was heavy in his eye.

If Carole didn’t have years of training behind her, she would have been hard-pressed not to rip that eye out of his head. "May I go, sir?" she asked tightly. "I’m off-duty this week. I just drove in to hear this." And she had a home to go back to, with a second son whose friend had broken him, and who hurt every time he moved.

"You’re off-duty for as long as you like," Fury said, with more apology under his words. Now she wanted to rip out his tongue. "Pass on my condolences to your family. He was good at his job, and had even more potential. He’ll be missed."

"That’s what the Tesseract did, you know," Carole said. "It unlocked their potential: all that potential that was inside them, pushed even beyond human limits. He had so much. And now I’m never going to see it." Fury had the sense not to say anything more, and she had the sense not to add more. "Thank you, sir," Carole said, and left.

When she got home, she remembered that Burt shouldn't have pizza. They all ate it, anyway.

* * *

Thanksgiving had always been adequate when Santana was with her new parents in Ohio. Nothing worse, nothing better: just adequate. The Lopezes didn't get into big arguments like some families, but there was always a certain formality that Santana now recognized was her parents' desire never to have entered the program. With years' distance between them, she didn't resent the duo any more, not _really_. As she looked back she saw that her new mom had actually been pretty supportive, and her new dad had made her life there very comfortable.

But it wasn't really home. Brittany's parents, with their ridiculous jokes and touristy excitement over visiting New York for the first time, felt like home. They were out, spending their Friday seeing some of the biggest, dumbest sights in the city. From the sound of it as they occasionally checked in over the phone, they were having a grand old time. 

If the Pierces didn't already love Santana, she had the feeling they were on their way there. It was great. The whole week had been great.

"Leftover sandwiches," Brittany said as she set down a plate in front of Santana. Also great.

All of that food in the fridge was the best part of Black Friday, even better than the sales. Since NBC's promotional department got Santana anything she wanted (and some things she hadn't even realized she wanted), hitting stores at 6 AM had lost much of its appeal. Instead, she'd decided to watch bad television all day, graze on leftover food, and cuddle with her girlfriend. Soon, she and Quinn would face off against their producers and present them with a list of demands for how they wanted to be presented and treated, but on that day it was just food and makeout sessions.

An Indiana Jones marathon satisfied both of them and they made it through most of Raiders without moving. Eventually Santana had to use the bathroom and Brittany wanted more food, so they paused for a quick break. Flinging herself back onto the couch, Santana waited patiently for Brittany to stop poking through the leftovers and come back under their shared blanket.

Her phone rang and she grabbed it like a reflex.

Santana glanced at the screen and tossed the phone aside when she saw it was neither her producers nor Quinn. She didn't want to deal with people today unless she had to, and Artie was interrupting her day off with that text. Her phone had already landed on the couch cushion and bounced before she really thought about the words she'd seen. With a frown, Santana scooped it up to reread whatever he'd sent.

_looks like the service is in 2 wks. giving time 2 find him I guess. didn't want 2 interrupt ur tgiving_

"The service?" Santana repeated. "Find _who?_ "

With an annoyed sigh, she selected Artie in her list of contacts and waited as the phone rang. It'd serve him right if he was about to score some killer Black Friday deal and she ruined it for him via a distracting call. That was a weird, unsettling text he'd dumped in her lap with no explanation, and she didn't appreciate it one bit. "Hey, Speed Racer," she said, remembering his preference for the label. "What's with the text you just sent?"

"Well, I mean, I haven't heard a specific time yet. Have you?" Artie sounded so depressed. Maybe his family had put him through a traditional Thanksgiving argument. "I just sent you that to make sure you knew everything that I did."

"Wait." Santana rubbed a hand over her eyes. "Back up about fifty steps. What service?"

"The funeral?"

"What funeral?" Santana asked, eyes widening. Across the room, Brittany looked up, startled.

Artie was quiet for a long, long beat. "Tina and Mike said they were telling everyone."

"Abrams," Santana said as Brittany approached her with a worried expression. "No one told me anything. What _should_ they have said?"

"Oh god," Artie whispered. "Oh my... I thought you knew. I would have called, I really thought they told you."

"Told me what?" Santana snapped.

"About... you know. About Kurt."

Santana's hand flexed around her phone. When she spoke, her voice was unnaturally calm. "Yeah, what about Kurt?" Brittany took another step forward and clasped Santana's other wrist. 

Artie hesitated. "Don't make me say it."

"Artie!"

"He's... it's going to be his funeral. Something went wrong on a mission. And it's his funeral. They don't have, um, a body, so the funeral's waiting a little while." Artie swallowed. "Yeah. I swear I thought you already knew."

"He's dead," Santana said, and sat down. At some point she'd stood, although she didn't remember lurching to her feet. "I don't... but that's...."

"Yeah. Pretty much."

Brittany shook her head, over and over.

"When?" Santana swallowed and put a hand to her forehead. Dizziness swept her. "You said you didn't want to ruin Thanksgiving. This happened _yesterday?_ "

"I. No. Um." Artie swallowed audibly. "Sunday night. They said they—"

The phone fell from Santana's hands, and she had to scramble to pick it back up. "Sunday," Santana repeated.

"I swear, people said they were telling everyone. I thought you knew."

As Santana's pulse sped, she looked wildly around the room and saw tears running down Brittany's cheeks. She hung up without telling Artie goodbye and stood again. Her knees nearly gave out when she tried to move; Brittany was as much Santana's crutch as someone to be comforted. "Sunday night," Santana repeated into the softness of Brittany's hair. "It happened on _Sunday_ and no one thought we needed to know?"

That was nearly a week ago. A _week._

"He can't be dead," Brittany said, gasping. "How could we not know that Kurt was dead?"

_How could any of them be dead_ , Santana wondered as she stroked Brittany's hair. That wasn't supposed to happen. They shouldn't be able to die.

Brittany pulled back. Her hands tightened on Santana's shoulders and a wild gleam was in her eyes. "He can't be dead. He doesn't have to be dead."

Until a faint pink glow began to build around them, Santana wasn't sure what Brittany meant. It was the same glow Brittany had made when she'd brought Finn back to life. "No," Santana said instantly, and fumbled for Brittany's hands. "No, you can't."

"I can," Brittany said, voice unsteady. "I can do anything. Right?"

"You didn't bring back Sue, Brit." When Brittany looked ready to protest, Santana squeezed her hands hard enough to hurt. "Brittany, you could bring back Finn because it was all right there in front of us, right that second, and you knew exactly what you had to change to save him. No one outside that room even knew anything happened. What you did was amazing, but it wasn't this huge."

"But we have our full powers, now," Brittany said in a thin, pleading voice. "I bet I could. I bet I could just wish that anything had happened, and concentrate hard enough to...."

"You bet you could what, exactly? Say Kurt's alive again, just because... he is? You don't know what you need to change, you don't know what did this, you don't know where it happened." Santana swallowed. Her mouth tasted sour. "For all you know, you'd just bring him back _wrong_ if you only knew to say that he _had_ to be alive again. Or other people would die from all the changes that had to happen, or... you can't save everyone," Santana whispered as she watched Brittany's sudden, fierce hope crumple. "Please don't try to save everyone." Brittany couldn't save everyone, and she'd wither in tiny slivers if she got it into her mind that she could.

"I could, though," Brittany said, although her tears said that she'd accepted Santana's truth. "I...." She ducked her head, wiped at her eyes, and said, "We have to call Quinn."

"Fuck," Santana said and wanted to cry. Yes, they did have to call Quinn, and no, she didn't want to tell her what they'd sat in ignorance of for nearly a week, and what Quinn would now be the very last to know. But there was no use arguing, and every second she waited would be one more second that Quinn had been left out in the cold, just as they had. "Go take a shower before your parents get back," Santana suggested. They weren't used to sharing bathroom time between four people.

"I can be here, if you want," Brittany said softly. 

"Thank you," Santana said, and stroked her cheek with one finger, but that comfort turned to more bile at the back of her throat. If Kurt could die, and stay dead, then any of them could die. It had begun: they were vulnerable, and so it could happen to anyone. 

Brittany could die.

Just barely containing her shudder, Santana said, "No, go take a shower. You missed yesterday because of all that cooking. I'll call her. It's fine."

The look Brittany shot her said it wasn't fine, and it wouldn't be fine, but she walked off regardless. Santana stared at her phone for a long time before she forced herself to dial.

"Hey!" Quinn said cheerfully as soon as she picked up. "Mom's new guy is actually great. And black. Is that okay to say? I don't know if I'm allowed to mention that or not, but it's just not who I pictured for her after Russell, you know? But he's so nice."

"Shut up," Santana said, frustrated, when no kinder interruption came to mind. 

"Excuse me?"

_Rip off the band-aid._ "Artie called me just now. He thought we'd been told something that everyone forgot to call us about. Something important."

"What is it?" Quinn asked, wary.

_Band-aid. Band-aid._ "A mission went wrong, and Kurt died on Sunday."

The line was quiet for a long, painful breath. "Oh," Quinn said, soft as a whisper.

"The funeral's not going to be for a couple of weeks, still," Santana added. "Because they don't have a...." She swallowed. It really felt like she was going to throw up, and she was stuck dancing on that edge between hoping it would pass and running for the toilet, just in case. "They don't have a body."

"Someone took him?" Quinn asked. "That's...."

"Yeah. I know." 

They were quiet, brought together by their disbelieving grief across hundreds of miles.

"I hope he wasn't alone," Quinn said. "Sue told us not to be on our own, and I hope... I hope he wasn't alone."

Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. Santana didn't know, just like she hadn't known for a week that one of her friends was dead. "I hope so, too."

Quinn took in that Santana didn't know, either, and both stayed quiet until Quinn's mother called her to lunch.

_This wasn't how things were supposed to work,_ Santana thought as she sat in her gorgeous apartment with its stockpile of inspirational fan mail. No matter how good some things might be, they had to be paying too high a price for their lives. They _had_ to.

She'd thought her terrible producers were the worst thing that any of them would face. Having that certainty shattered left her more terrified than she wanted to admit, and she had to fight back the urge to rush into that bathroom and convince herself that Brittany was still real and alive. If Brittany's parents hadn't been set to return at any time, she might well have.

_Brittany could die_ , Santana thought as she stared at her glossy floor and thought of days long past, of school photos and too-easy insults and shared dreams. Brittany went off alone most days to fight her crazy fights. And what had Quinn reminded her, just now? They weren't supposed to be alone.

Then why, Santana wondered, did so many of them feel that way?

* * *

Ten hours after Kurt Hummel had been killed, his corpse was flat and bare on a stone slab in a room floors below the snowy ground. That room was quiet: part laboratory, part mausoleum. Injections had been made in the pale, cold skin. Carefully painted sigils followed the body like a chalk outline.

Victor von Doom, ruler of the nation of Latveria, had ordered that corpse to be delivered with only one small, clean wound. Bullseye had pulped a circle of flesh as wide as Doctor Doom's clenched fist. Doom was displeased at his orders being ignored. Behind the steel mask covering his face, his eyes narrowed.

"You didn't tell me he could go invisible," Bullseye complained. He leaned against the wall, his arms folded. Despite being thousands of miles from his home, in a dreary castle in Europe, he seemed at ease. He probably thought he was confident; Doom found him foolish.

"That ability was not in our records," Doom said. He had only a few seconds' video of this troublesome agent through the eyes of an ill-fated Doombot. It had taken years of diplomatic maneuvering before the UN had trusted Latveria enough to give them a spot at the podium. Years! Everything was in place. The day before the speech, two 'rogue' terrorists, actually loyal Latverians, were going to bomb the US and Russian embassies in Prague. Hundreds would die. 

Doom knew Washington might try to take out his Doombot in the days leading up to its speech, even though their technology would have no way to tell that it wasn't a real person. That could be taken care of quietly, and Latveria would be publicly asked to send a new diplomat to replace the one who'd suffered a supposed stroke or encountered family issues. The firebombing in Prague, though, would draw everyone's attention to Latveria. The Americans wouldn't dare use a sniper on this supposed Latverian diplomat in the final day, even if they did suspect his true nature. Everyone would be paying too much attention and it would look far too suspicious.

But the Doombot would still perish, of course, and in front of the General Assembly of the United Nations. Doom had avoided his customary skill and made the explosives look jury-rigged, like someone couldn't help themselves and had snuck in with one day's notice to plant them onstage, accidentally making them far too powerful as they jammed pieces together. When that apparent attempt to kill the Latverian diplomat played brutally out, there would be no shortage of blame.

He could predict the geopolitical ramifications like a grandmaster at chess. One school of political thought would argue that the American hosts had a recent history of military force, and one unhinged member clearly took that to its extreme. No, don't be ridiculous, others would say; no American would try to catch the Latverian in an embassy-mimicking explosion, not when it was their own city surrounding him. Russians, however, would have no such hesitations and wanted revenge, as well.

Doom's estimates foretold that Western Europe, Japan, India, and Australia would fall in with the United States. The far reaches of Eastern Europe would fall back in with Russia, as would some of the Middle East and China. The tensions of the Cold War would resurface. People would fear real violence.

When Taiwan stated their support for the United States, open war would finally be achieved. If the reaction was not sufficiently explosive when Taipei argued against Beijing, Latveria had moles in place to cause riots. Doom had foretold it all, and he was the planet's greatest genius.

(No matter what that annoying Reed Richards said, in his silly little pajama costume for the Fantastic Four.)

His plan was perfect. 

And then a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent somehow slipped through all his security, identified his Doombot, and secured its head for evidence. Even if Doom scrambled to implement some new plan, _any_ new plan, his diplomat's face was on record _and_ in S.H.I.E.L.D's evidence lockers. If Latveria tried anything, the world's gun barrels would be aimed not at each other, but at his country.

He'd hoped to return to the glory days of the Cold War, and then to a full-on World War after that. There were opportunities in war. Weakened by their misguided struggle against each other, the sides would eventually succumb to Doom's global rule. He would impose upon the world the guidance that it sadly lacked, and receive the glory that he deserved. Instead he had nothing. 

Doom was displeased. No one made him look the fool, and certainly not a scuttling hive of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.

Contributing to his displeasure was this bloody corpse that was distinctly _not_ in the condition that Doom had requested.

"Those, uh, techie things worked like a charm," Bullseye said and smiled. In his plan for revenge, Doom had spied on that S.H.I.E.L.D. building and invented ways to overcome its security system. He was the world's greatest genius, after all, and he owed S.H.I.E.L.D. an extra bit of humiliation for overcoming his measures at the hotel. "I only wish I could have seen the face of the first person who found those presents I left behind." 

"Your enjoyment is meaningless," Doom said. "Why did you not deliver a clean corpse?"

"He's clean enough," Bullseye said. "Look, it's not like I chopped off his head."

"Doom will determine what qualifies as a clean cut." Doom stuck his metal-gloved finger into the wound in the agent's chest and tested the width of the soft, destroyed flesh, and then looked at the mangled palms of its hands. There was a large gash on its forehead, as well, and it would draw far too much attention if he was unable to repair it without a scar. Inside his mask, his lips pursed. "You are not getting your final collection fee." He'd already given Bullseye half his quote before he flew to New York in a private jet. That was more than enough for the job he'd actually done.

"What?" Bullseye snapped. "You're going to pay me what you promised!"

"You did not deliver what you promised."

"He's there," Bullseye said and shoved the agent's shoulder. The body rocked sluggishly and Doom's chest tightened with irritation. That was his property, now.

"Do not test Doom. It would be unwise." 

Bullseye scowled. "You lost me my bloody fingers! I _throw weapons_ , you bastard. You owe me for the jobs I can't take until I find a way to get these fixed."

"You will not address Doom as 'bastard,'" Doom said. His voice was deceptively mild.

"I'll address you how I want," Bullseye said. "I know you stick to your word, and you promised me I'd be paid fairly."

"You're absolutely right," Doom said and watched his nanobots slowly heal the gaping wounds in his new soldier's body. With a gesture, he activated the magical seals that a few priests had been gently convinced to install. His nanobots would keep the body from decaying, and those seals would keep the soul from escaping. If it had already fled, it was now being drawn back to its corpse like a boat being pulled toward a whirlpool.

Doom supposed the process was rather unpleasant. It would probably leave mental trauma. With the proper training, though, his soldiers followed orders. That was all he cared about.

As he watched the agonizingly slow restoration begin, Doom calculated his new timeline. It would be at least a month until his soldier was combat ready, and possibly more. He'd expected two weeks. That was more expensive on his end, as he had to invest more in restoring the agent. It also had an opportunity cost: there were S.H.I.E.L.D. missions that Doom wished to interrupt, but he wouldn't be able to.

Doom also calculated specific costs and money spent. He figured how much money his empire was worth versus how much money Bullseye could make on his future jobs. Most people would have found the numbers overwhelming, but Victor von Doom was like no one else. It was a simple matter to determine exactly how the two of them had shifted their wealth during the mission to grab this agent.

"Well?" Bullseye asked impatiently. 

"Doom treats his employees fairly," Doom said as he reached a final total, "and as stated, the payment you've already been given is more than fair. Your sloppy delivery has obliterated an enormous amount of wealth. You are fortunate that Doom considers this contract ended. He would be within his rights to demand full repayment."

"Hey!" Bullseye said in rapidly mounting rage. 

"You may escort yourself off the property, now. Doom is being kind," Doom said, "which is a rare gift."

"You fucking prick, you're not going to keep me from what's rightfully mine!"

A pity. Bullseye had potential, but Doom refused to accept disrespect. "That is correct," Doom said as Bullseye lunged for the table with his mangled hand. Even mutilated, he was likely to aim true. Bullseye began to close his hand around a surgical instrument that would easily kill a mortal man, once thrown.

Doom, though, was far better than any simple mortal man. He raised his hand and electricity shot from his glove's implanted circuits. Bullseye seized, shook, and then fell heavily to the ground after his electrocution. His corpse smelled very faintly of cooked swine. It was exactly the _fair_ repayment Bullseye had earned for assaulting the unquestioned ruler of Latveria. "Perhaps you should have remained in employ longer," Doom told his former mercenary. "And worked off your debt. Remove that," he added to a servant. She bobbed a quick bow and began dragging out the body.

"On second thought," he continued when she was halfway out of the room, "take it to a new room. The priests will be brought in again. Loyal servants are always welcomed."

His nanobots could even heal Bullseye's hand.


	9. I Woke Up This Morning

_The world was cold. He was trapped in a dungeon of stone and blood, with a cellmate of meat that refused to rot away._

_Unalive, tiny metal things scratched and pulled at that slab of flesh. They were too small for human eyes to see, but he could hear them moving and building and multiplying. They frightened him. When their work was done, something bad would happen. Somehow he knew._

_He clawed at walls of nothing, trying to get out, but the seals held. Sometimes he would push hard enough to make them flash bright with magic, and the breathing people in the room would look over. Then they turned back to what they were doing and he heard the tiny metal things working again._

_There was no way out. By three days in, that much was clear. He never slept as the tiny machines did their terrible work, because only bodies slept._

_All alone, deeply afraid, and surrounded by blood and metal, he curled up in a corner of his prison and waited for whatever happened next._

* * *

Once Puck became familiar with being forgotten, he clung to that feeling like a dog worrying a toy.

He had few outlets for working through his emotions: love, which had been taken from him; sex, which was also gone; work, which didn't help as much as he'd hoped; crimefighting, which he'd been told by the police not to do. 

The one other thing he had was friendship, and just thinking about his friends made everything worse. They hadn't visited on that first terrible day, after Finn came by; they'd only called. To his grief-honed heart, that felt like an insult. Even while knowing that he had to be the worst off of everyone, no one could be bothered to actually come to Brooklyn. 

More messages poured in that evening and in the days to come, but he deleted them unread and unheard. If they really cared, they'd come in person. They hadn't, so they didn't. Puck began to spend more and more time away from his apartment so he wouldn't hear the silence of his door. The dark satisfaction he felt over being ignored felt like a prize that he didn't want to give up. In the end, they _were_ all too self-absorbed to give a shit about anyone but themselves. He _wasn't_ important enough to be anything but a strong body and collection of jokes. Every dark suspicion he'd ever had bubbled free and burst, and instead of adding to his grief, it felt like it detached him from his pain. He could be angry rather than sad.

He knew how to be angry.

No one knew how to talk to him at work, and no one tried more than once. He got a text over lunch while he was eating alone, and out of some morbid curiosity Puck looked at who'd sent this one before he deleted it. Usually he didn't, and so he didn't know who all had tried to contact him in a way that was so _convenient_ for them.

It was Lauren.

For a second Puck teetered on the edge of caring. Someone had to have told Lauren, because she seldom sent texts. Did this mean that someone decided that they weren't getting through to him, and so they'd... no. Puck closed his eyes, hard, and deleted her text by touch. She was going to school somewhere in Wisconsin, somewhere that had a good wrestling team. She was dating someone on the men's squad, had a small but loyal group of friends (by choice), and had taken to her university like she owned the entire campus. She'd dumped Puck and moved smoothly on to the perfect co-ed life.

No, Puck didn't want to hear from Lauren.

He didn't know how to cope with this. When he'd felt like he was going through his own personal Purgatory during his years on the road, everything made a strange kind of sense: solve other people's problems, move on, sleep when he needed to. But he was supposed to be settled, now. He was supposed to be growing up and finding his place back home. Right? Nothing made sense, even without thinking about the name Puck never let himself think. Whenever Kurt's name floated too high in his mind, he shoved it away, hard, before it could hurt him any more. 

At the end of another day when he'd tried to put in overtime and been told to go home, Puck set off walking through a scattering of sleet. He could have run or taken a taxi, but he liked the cold. 

Brooklyn was plagued with gentrification and Red Hook was one of the last strongholds close to Manhattan. Puck had been happy to rent a small place near the East River, in a building too old to tempt the few well-off people sniffing around the area. That had been a mistake. He should have scrounged money, he thought as he walked down the sidewalk, already dark with early winter evening, and rented a nicer place. That would have made Kurt happier. Or he should have accepted the money Kurt offered him. He should've done a lot of things.

No. Don't think about Kurt.

_You were wandering for two years,_ Puck thought, now trying to turn that experience around into something that would apply in his current life. _This will just be more of the same, right? You're just trying to find the next step again._ No. No, it wasn't the same. Because during all those years, on some level he never let himself admit out loud, he'd hoped.

Puck slowed and stopped three blocks from his home. The bar was dark and dingy, and its sign was chipped. It wasn't a place that served adventurous bankers branching out from their old Manhattan neighborhoods, nor hipsters living off their parents' trust funds. _What the hell_ , he thought and pushed the door open. They'd throw him out as soon as they saw the age on his license, but until then he'd be surrounded by people as miserable as he was. Who else would be at a dive bar at seven on a Monday night?

A flash of orange moved across his vision. The brightly colored mutant was racking up balls at a billiard table as his opponent twisted chalk onto his cue. Memories hit Puck with almost physical force as he remembered rescuing two mutant women from a run-down bar in Columbus, on their very first trip out as a team. He and Kurt had worked together. He'd held Kurt, bleeding and damaged, on the entire drive back before he had any idea why he'd felt compelled to do so.

_Fuck._ Puck walked purposefully toward the bar. He wasn't going to turn tail and run, but if he went straight to the bartender and got thrown to the curb, it'd get things over with without him chickening out. The bartender took one long look up and down him, then asked, "What'll you have?"

Puck didn't blink or question his good luck. "Whatever's cheap and strong," he said.

"Cheap, strong, or easy to swallow," the bartender said with a smirk. "Pick two."

"Cheap and strong," Puck repeated. The bartender held up his hands in surrender and soon Puck was picking up a mug of something dark and cloudy. He wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't swallowing drain cleaner, but when he got halfway through the mug and hadn't gone deaf or blind, he decided it was safe and finished with greater speed. "Can I get another?"

The second mug vanished like the first. By the time his third was in hand, Puck began to wonder how drunk he'd wind up getting once everything really hit his system. Hopefully he could make it back to his apartment, he thought as he began to work on glass number three.

"Have you eaten anything?" he heard some time later. He'd nursed the third drink more slowly than its brothers, but it was nearly gone.

Puck turned to the voice next to him. She was cute, if not beautiful. Her upturned nose and crinkled eyes gave her an impish quality, enhanced by her full sleeve tattoo in defiantly bright colors. Her chest hung low and heavy enough to look real and perhaps a little painful. The tiny straps to her tank top strained; it wasn't the right shirt for her. The pin through her eyebrow was spiked on both ends. Puck had never seen anyone with hair quite that shade of neon yellow.

In short, she was as far away from Kurt as Puck was likely to meet that night.

"No," he said. "Haven't eaten." He wasn't hungry except in sudden flashes when his body managed to shout over his emotions.

"Here," she said and offered him the gnawed half-remnant of a sidewalk pretzel.

Puck looked at it, then at her.

"I'm not gonna finish it, and I know what it's like to wish you'd eaten something to soak up the booze. Eat it. I promise I didn't slobber on it too much."

Shrugging, Puck accepted the remnants of her meal and began to shove pieces into his mouth. It was probably a good idea, yeah.

"You look sad," she said when he'd shoved in the last bit of bread.

"I am sad," he said. She blinked, like she hadn't expected him to actually admit it, and sat there studying him for almost a minute. Puck let her. He was feeling whatever it was he'd had to drink, and thinking was hard.

"You're too pretty to be so sad," she said.

Puck raised his dull eyes to meet hers. They were dark brown, nearly black.

"You should smile," she added. 

"I can lift a couple of tons," Puck said. "I carry shit without a forklift. If I fuck you, you'll end up in the ER. Or the morgue. Or maybe just walking funny, I haven't tested it, because I don't want to...." He didn't want to kill someone. He didn't want someone to die.

"You're kidding me," she said, not noticing or caring that he'd broached the topic of sex. It had taken Puck a couple of seconds to realize what he'd said, too. He'd just recognized the look in her eyes, and his body was fighting to overtake his painful mind, at least for a while. "I guess you've got the arms for it," she said and leaned over to pat one. Her empty glass slid out of the way when she leaned forward, and her low-cut top strained across her breasts. Puck had a straight shot down her cleavage.

He stared at his drink and wondered if he should order another, but the woman spoke up again. "There are still ways, though. Right?"

Puck looked at her warily.

"I had a bad day at work and you look ready to drop over dead, and we're both a little drunk." The woman shrugged. "Just a thought. My place is three buildings over."

"You're trying to buy me off with a pretzel?" Puck asked, but paused. Yeah. That seemed about right. That seemed about the price to pay for him. "Guess it worked."

She smiled, slid on her heavy jacket, and led the way. It was a tiny walkup, slightly cleaner than his, and Puck wondered what the hell he was doing. He'd promised Kurt: only him, because it would be only Puck. But Kurt was gone and that promise was broken, just like he was. As soon as the door closed, Puck caught the woman's mouth in his, sucking lightly at her lower lip. If he'd really gone for it, Puck thought vacantly, he could have sucked her lip right off her skull. He had to be careful. He was drunk and he needed to keep control.

As soon as they separated, she peeled off her shirt. Caught by the tight material, her heavy breasts fell and bounced as they were freed. The nipples were large and dark. Womanly. Puck leaned forward and took one in his mouth, teasing his tongue around the nub of flesh. As it tightened, he felt his cock strain against his jeans. _Good_ , he thought through his haze of cheap liquor. _This is good: skin. This is what you need._

"So we're getting right to business," she breathed as Puck pulled back from her skin, leaving a shiny spot of saliva behind.

He picked her up like a crumpled tissue and laid her on the bed, then sprawled on top. She sucked in a breath at how effortless it had been for him; clearly, she hadn't believed in his powers, or at least not their scope. "You're actually dangerous," she said. Excitement gleamed in her eyes as one hand cupped his straining erection.

"I'll go down on you if you want," Puck said and began to slide down so his face could nestle in the warmth where her legs met. 

She shook her head as she scrambled to get her pants loose. "Just pull out in time."

"I don't have a condom," Puck said with irritation, though all the words didn't form quite like he wanted. Alcohol had slowed his tongue."You could wind up in the fucking ER."

"I know. Pull out in time."

She had no idea who he was, Puck thought as he stripped his shirt and shoved down his pants and boxers. His erection sprang free like an afterthought. He could kill her, she'd have no idea of his name as she died, and she thought it was just an adrenaline rush. That was exactly what they were to each other, Puck thought as he leaned forward to where her legs spread pliantly open. They were nothing more than an adrenaline rush. 

She dripped where they met. He was an exotic animal to this woman, Puck thought as the head of his cock slipped into her, and the thought of fucking him had her gasping even before she was touched. When he filled her, balls deep, she arched and groaned. 

Puck's hips began to piston. He didn't come anywhere near to losing himself. If he did, he could shatter her pelvis. Still, he thought as he felt her tight, warm grip around him, it was skin. It was heat. His cock's stamina fell short of matching his heart's pain, but it was a hell of a band-aid while it lasted.

Her heels settled against his back. Fingernails scored his shoulders. They were both just animals, Puck thought as he grunted and adjusted his angle. They were a couple of animals in heat, fucking in a dirty den, and not thinking about anything beyond the present. Soon he felt his balls pull up tight and full, and it became harder to resist his body's call to thrust forward as hard as he could.

"You look happy now," she breathed, and Puck nearly lost his rhythm.

She still cared whether he was happy.

They were supposed to be goddamn animals in heat.

His scowl brought enough danger with it to bring her off, and she dug her fingernails into his back hard enough to draw beads of blood. Puck kept thrusting until he felt the third time she clenched around him, sighing happily, and he pulled free. His cock was slick with her juices when he grasped himself. It was easy to tug until his balls pulled up and he came into his other hand.

"You're a superhero or something," she breathed, arcing her arms above her messy hair. "I can't believe it."

Puck didn't reply. He felt sick.

"Smile," she said, propping herself up on one arm. "Just be happy." She was kind, caring, and more beautiful than he'd realized in the bar. She deserved better than him, and Puck suddenly couldn't stand the sight of this woman who'd done nothing wrong. "My name's M—"

"I don't want to know your name," Puck said, zipped his jeans, and grabbed his boxers and shirt. He walked out into the hallway before bothering to finish dressing, and slammed the door behind him. He went to work the next morning with a hangover.

The next night he went to a different bar, and wound up jerking himself entirely to completion when the man he'd found did a shit job of pleasuring anyone but himself. He was smaller than Puck had guessed, too. He was a small-dicked, selfish prick, and Puck didn't ask his name before he walked out for the second time in a row.

Puck found someone better that same night. They went at each other twice, once with Puck on his back and once on his hands and knees. The man was wiry, blond, and hung like a damn elephant. Puck would walk funny the next day, he thought as he felt the shaft pull slowly from his oversensitive hole. It had felt good, though. He liked feeling full like that, because then he couldn't think of anything besides his body.

He didn't want to think about anything else. Now that this stranger wasn't inside him, he was thinking. Shit.

"Thanks," Puck said brusquely and stood. He had stamina like few others, but this man didn't. He'd need longer to get it back up than Puck was willing to wait, and Puck wasn't about to spend fifteen bucks on the chance to fuck a stranger safely inside a superstrength condom. The man didn't offer his name, probably because he sensed it wouldn't be welcomed, and Puck was already out the door when he stuffed his cock back into his jeans and zipped his fly. 

The rain felt like ice when it hit and was mixed with wet snow. Puck pulled up his hood, but it soon soaked through. It was a shitstain of a night. He reached for his phone and had to blink blearily at its map for a few beats until he managed to place where he was. He wasn't blind drunk and it wasn't that far from home; he just felt exhausted, like no sleep could ever fix him. Despite the freezing cloth soaking his head, he walked. It felt like he'd slip on icy patches if he tried to run.

When he began ascending the narrow stairs, Mrs. Krawiec, his ancient, tiny neighbor opened her door on the second floor. "Noah," she said in her creaky voice.

"You're still up?" he asked. Weren't old people supposed to go to bed at about eight? "What time is it?"

"After one. My arm is bothering me again." She shot him a look. "I don't want that girl of yours hanging around this building. This place is for nice people, we don't have revolving doors."

Puck stared at her blankly. 

"Some people have come by and waited in your hallway. I don't like it. And tonight a girl went upstairs and still hasn't come back down." Her yellowed, clouded eyes were as sharp as he'd ever seen. "Behave yourself."

Too tired and cold to argue with her, Puck walked on without a word. She huffed in outrage and closed her door just loudly enough to not be rude at that time of night.

When Puck got to his hall, no one was there. Not surprising. He had no idea what she'd been talking about in the first place, saying that people had come by. Obviously no one had, and so no one would be waiting for him now. He unlocked his door, fumbled for the lights as he closed it, and let out an unseemly noise of surprise when he saw Rachel waiting for him.

"Noah," she said. "I was wondering if you were ever going to get home. I was getting very concerned."

Puck looked between her and the door. "How the hell did you get in?"

She held up something metal that blinked. "A gift from a friend with a world-class laboratory. And I'm sorry for letting myself in, but we've tried to get in touch with you for days and you've completely shut us out. I was ready to launch a full surveillance effort, if your work hadn't said that you'd been there, so that I knew you were still, well. Alive."

Still frowning at her, Puck shucked his jacket and hoodie. "How long have you been here?"

She glanced at his microwave clock and covered a yawn. "Since about nine, I think. Some of us have come and waited outside, but you've barely been at your apartment. And you don't respond to any messages... we were worried. I was worried." Her eyes softened. "I was so worried."

"Yeah, well, go home," Puck said and threw his damp clothing over the nearest chair. "I don't need you here."

"I think you do."

"Yeah?" Puck asked, one eyebrow cocked. He spread his hands wide. "There's a big fucking surprise: Rachel Berry, telling other people what to do." She stayed quiet and he went on. "What, did I distract you? Did you figure out that you finally had to stop by so you wouldn't miss a note during practice? Well, congrats. I'm fine. You can go get back to your perfect life, now."

She flinched at 'perfect life,' but only said, "I don't think you're fine."

"And we all know that if Rachel thinks it, it's _gotta_ be true," Puck said, snorting. "Because even if you're wrong, you'll bitch at us until we give in just to shut you up."

"I'm not leaving," Rachel said and got that obnoxious look on her face that he remembered from when they'd dated, not to mention from every single New Directions practice when she didn't get her way. "Not like this."

"Okay," Puck said and pulled off his t-shirt. He was darkly satisfied to see her look away, and have to work up the courage to turn back to his half-naked body. He wondered if Finn knew she was there. If not, this probably felt like cheating. She was rigid like that. "I'm going to bed. Gonna sleep naked," he added and hooked his thumbs into his belt loops.

She looked away again, but her voice was steady. "Kurt's not the only one you hurt when you lost your memories, Noah," Rachel said.

Puck looked at her hollowly.

"The way you acted in Ohio was deplorable. You humiliated me just because you could. Those slushies were _so_ cold, and all the insults... maybe you enjoyed tormenting someone you found so annoying." Rachel tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, then risked looking back. Her gaze was steady after she saw that he was still in his pants. "I know I can be. Or maybe you were taking some subconscious chance to get back at me for dumping you all those years ago."

"Does this have a point?" Puck asked.

"You owe me," Rachel said and walked forward to grab his hand. "And so you will listen to me, Noah Puckerman. You've been fighting a hard battle to be better. I am not going to stand by and let you throw yourself away. You can tell yourself that you're not worth it, but I am demanding that you not let me down."

Puck's gaze hardened, but words failed him. He looked down in frustration. When he looked back up, his eyes were filled with tears. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Talk to us," she pleaded. "We've tried to call and you don't reply. We come by and you're never home."

"I was busy," Puck mumbled.

"Then talk to us now. And go to work," Rachel said. "Every day. Pay your bills. Shower. Get dressed."

He nodded mutely, but the words rang hollow. Go to work: yeah, that's what the cop had said. That's what he'd been doing. It hadn't helped.

"You could help me sometimes with missions," Rachel added more gently. "If it would help you feel like you had direction in your life. Or you could talk to Finn about helping the firm. I think it would be good if you were around your friends, Noah, instead of just going off on your own. That's when people can lose their way."

He nodded again; to which suggestion, he didn't know.

"And speaking of being on your own," Rachel began, clearly suspecting why she'd had to wait so long for him to arrive.

"It helps," Puck said.

"Does it really?" 

"I don't want to hear it, Berry."

Rachel hesitated for a long beat. "I've seen quite a spectrum of sexual freedom in the Tower. Tony is less of an unencumbered playboy than he tries to pretend, but he's certainly had his share of adventures. And Steve, well, he's still waiting for the right woman. I judged Tony's past at first, I admit it, and every time he flirted with me I thought he was outright cheating on his girlfriend. I grew to understood him, though, and who he was. Eventually I decided that so long as no one's hurt, there's nothing wrong with being with who you want. It took me a while to learn that, and stop judging, but I did."

"I'm not fucking you," Puck said. It seemed like the easiest way to get her to leave, which he still wanted. At least, he thought he did.

Her lips thinned. "You're not driving me away, Noah. Not when I've been trying to talk to you for a week. So long as no one is hurt," she repeated, "it's not wrong. But you look like you're hurting."

She wasn't judging him for being with people who weren't Kurt, Puck realized, even this soon after... after everything. Or maybe she did actually think he was terrible and deserved a kick in the crotch, but hell, he wasn't a telepath and she was putting on a good show. "Yeah," he said, feeling rudderless in a storm. She was the one friend he had at hand, and now that she'd forced her way in and wasn't leaving at the first sign of trouble, he suddenly wanted to tell the truth. "It keeps me from thinking, but then it's over and I feel shittier than ever."

"There are people you could talk to. I could find someone and set up an appointment, maybe." He shrugged and Rachel squeezed his hand again. "You'll make it through this. I promise. Together, we all will."

"I just want him back," Puck said and crumpled in on himself. "He was here, and then one day goes by and he's not? How does that happen? How is that fair? How does one stupid day get to ruin my life?"

"You still have so much ahead of you," Rachel promised. "Please believe me. Just keep going forward, and ask for help when you need it, and... and it'll all work out. It will."

"Don't hug me," Puck said when he saw her move closer. "If I broke Finn, I'd probably snap you in half."

"You're not going to hurt me," Rachel said. "On that first day, we were all so besides ourselves, and... Finn doesn't blame you. I promise. He doesn't."

"What about his dad?" Puck asked. Rachel struggled for the right answer and Puck snorted. "Yeah. Thought so." Hey, at least Burt Hummel wouldn't have to see his son with _him_ any more. There was a positive, right? The joke was so bad that Puck felt sick as soon as he'd thought it, and he sank miserably onto the edge of his bed. Rachel sat next to him and stroked his back.

"Please think about helping us out? Only if you want to, but I truly think it might do you some good."

"Fine. Sure. Whatever." Puck rubbed his face. "How are you so together with all of this? Weren't you guys friends since you were what, seven?"

"Six," Rachel said softly. "And I suppose I just keep telling myself that I have to be together for everyone. It seems to do the trick." She looked down. "I mentioned that to Carole. She said she felt much the same, and told me that I should let it out and cry. But I'm worried that if I start up again, now that I've pushed it back so hard so that I can do what I need to do, that I won't ever be able to stop. My emotions are very strong, as you well know."

"Whatever lets you cope, I guess," Puck said and ran his calloused fingers over his face again, then his hair. He stopped, frowning.

"What?" Rachel asked.

"Should I shave this off?" Puck asked. She blinked, and Puck explained, "He doesn't like it." Puck froze, then corrected just above a whisper, "He didn't like it. He tried to cover it up when he said it once, but he totally didn't. I could tell." Puck swallowed and felt the line of hair burn like coals under his hand. "Should I get rid of it, to, you know... say I'm sorry?" Sorry for everything, ever.

"I think you should do whatever you want to do," Rachel said carefully. "That's a part of who you are, but...." She didn't seem to know quite what to say and trailed off.

"But hair grows back, right?" Puck asked. "I just... yeah. I want to." He stood up straight and walked to his bathroom before he could change his mind, and his hand closed around the clippers so hard they nearly broke. It shook as he swept the humming blades across his head in sloppy strokes. Uneven strands of dark hair dusted his bare shoulders, and he had to keep working at it until the mohawk vanished cleanly. This was what Kurt wanted. Yeah.

He looked so different, Puck thought as he swallowed at his face in the mirror. _I might regret this in the morning._ Of course, that'd be par for the course that week, wouldn't it? Lots of regret.

"It looks nice," Rachel said when he walked back out. He wasn't sure if she was lying. His shoulders itched from all the tiny bits of hair. "Noah, if you're going to be working with us—and I hope you will—do you want to come back to the Tower tonight? We have so many rooms open, and the beds are much more comfortable." She bounced up and down once on the mattress.

He shook his head. "No. I mean... yeah. I'll work with you. It'd probably be a good idea. The cops here don't want me throwing any more murderers through doors, but that should be okay." He ignored her wide eyes. "But I've got work tomorrow and it's convenient here."

"All right," Rachel said, standing. "Do you promise that you'll answer your phone?"

"No," Puck eventually said, "but I'll at least listen to the messages instead of deleting them."

"You've just been deleting everything?" Rachel said, sounding offended at the dismissal of all their concern.

He rolled his eyes. "Sorry. But fine, I'll work with you guys. Okay?"

"Okay," Rachel said and held out her arms in a clear sign that she was going to hug him. Puck let her, but didn't embrace her in return for fear of breaking more bones. "We all love you very much, Noah Puckerman, and we're all there for each other if we just remember to look. All right? I promise, this isn't the end, and you're going to feel better one day than you do right now."

The sob that bubbled up out of nowhere nearly broke him. It was hard not to cling to her like he had to Finn. "It's hard."

"I know," Rachel said and rubbed her hand across his back once more. Her voice was tight. Puck wondered what she wasn't showing for his sake. "I know."

* * *

Faced with death, some people choose to celebrate life with a fierce, desperate intensity. Well, Santana was faced with death, and this time she couldn’t just run headlong into a second-chance Finn Hudson and send him flying away from the machine that would paint a target on his back. This time she was like the people who hadn’t even been in that portal room and never knew what had happened.

No, it was worse, for the comparison didn't even match up. Puck was outside that room when Finn had died, but he’d been saving lives. The three down in the sub-basement had been on their own life-saving mission. This time, the only reason Santana had for being left out of the loop was that people had completely forgotten them. She didn’t know if she was more sad or angry, but either way she wanted Brittany to fix how she felt, in the way that she couldn’t just fix how Kurt was _dead._

"I can't... when you look like that," Brittany panted as Santana slid her fingers deftly into her slit. She was dripping wet, flushed from hairline to toes, and yet Santana just could not bring her girlfriend off. She was starting to get a little annoyed, truth be told.

"Like what?" Santana asked, curling her fingers to press firmly against Brittany's inner flesh. 

Brittany groaned and threw her legs further apart, and pressed against Santana's hand like she wanted her whole arm to fill her. She still didn't shudder and lose herself. Santana, scowling, worked her harder. "Wait," Brittany finally said.

Santana drew back, her dark eyes flashing.

Brittany propped herself up on her elbows. She looked so beautiful: heady with desire, glistening between her legs, hair a messy halo. But her expression for Santana was flat. "This isn't fun."

_Of course it's fun,_ Santana thought, but bit back on it. Her wrist was starting to cramp. Fun had _better_ be in the mix by that point.

"I know we’re trying to make ourselves feel better," Brittany said, sitting up, "but I feel worse."

Santana ran her hands through her hair like she was attacking it, not caring that one was still damp, and shrugged. "Well?" she asked, demanding that Brittany think of some better option.

Folding her legs under her, Brittany said softly, "The worst part is that nobody knows exactly what happened. I mean, why someone took Kurt. Or they're not telling us why, anyway." Great. So they were going from sixty to depressing in two-point-four seconds.

"People aren't telling us a lot of stuff," Santana said. "We get to be left out in all sorts of things. 'Hey, there are people over in that coffeeshop who could use your help.' 'Hey, we're actually going to try to make a couple of fake romances for Quinn out of thin air, just to eat up airtime.' 'Hey, Kurt was the demonstration tomato in a Ginsu commercial.'"

"That's not funny," Brittany said, tearing up. "You do this. You did it when Jacob died, and it wasn't funny then. And Kurt is our _friend_."

"Was, Brittany. Was our friend, and _was_ he, anyway? Seems to me that he's the only person who never came to one of our parties." Santana shrugged. "Look, he wanted the James Bond lifestyle—complete with Puck in a sexy dress, for all I know—and he got it, all on his lonesome. And then it killed him."

"Stop it." Brittany's jaw set. "You do this. You act mean to try to push away people and feelings, but it hurts everyone and it's wrong."

"Am I _wrong_ to say he could never be bothered to come to one of our parties?" Santana asked. "And he didn't even have the wardrobe excuse all of those other Target-wearing people gave us for not showing up again. He would have fit right in, but he still didn't—"

"If he was on camera, someone bad could track him down and everyone else he was talking to," Brittany said harshly. "He told us that and you know it."

Santana looked down. Fine.

"We're supposed to be there for each other," Brittany said, scooting closer. "But you looked mad just now, and like you were thinking of everyone except for me. This is supposed to be our safe spot," she added, gesturing around them. "Like how Catwoman could always come back to her apartment when she was done fighting Batman and Christopher Walken."

"The apartment where she went crazy and made herself a big shiny coat-suit?" Santana pointed out, but then relented and nodded. She put on her emotional armor for other people, but Brittany was right: she should take it off when they were together, alone. "It's not about Kurt," she began. "I mean, it is. This is huge and scary and I hate it, but it could be any one of us and I'd feel the same way. That... it's about how this wasn't how things were supposed to work for us. You know?"

She looked at Brittany, but Brittany clearly didn't know. She was one of the few of them who'd found a happy niche and probably wouldn't change a thing in her life if she could.

Santana kept talking. "When I got to be the person who inspires a bunch of scared little girls, it wasn't supposed to be for a show that immediately throws me overboard when they see two big white Avenger dicks on call. I want my real friends again, not all those stupid D-listers who come into our apartment every other week. I still don't know their names. And I don't want anyone to be dead." 'Anyone' was right. Kurt could have been anyone: Rachel on a mission gone even more wrong, Finn yet again when that guy showed up angry in their office with a gun, or Sam going into a bad neighborhood to get a quote and not coming out. The important thing was that it had happened to someone, and that they had to deal with how damn real it was.

"I just want everything to be okay for all of us," Brittany said and Santana nodded mutely. Yeah. That was it. For everything else that had taken a wrong turn, she'd had hope that things could be fixed. This couldn't. "But you're right: I don't know how to fix everything."

"That's not your job," Santana told her. "You help people, you stop all sorts of weirdos... you fix lots of stuff. You don't have to fix everything." She smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind Brittany's ear. Her hair really was a mess. "You do great."

Brittany smiled back, leaned forward, and kissed her. It was slow and sweet: everything their earlier attempt hadn't been. "You do great, too," she reminded her. "Remember those letters you have me read? And you're going to graduate and be the best bartender in the world when you're not busy fighting bad guys. And that's like the best secret identity ever, because you like alcohol and so do I."

That one took Santana a second. "The bar exam's for lawyers."

After a beat, Brittany said, "Oh. Well, then that's even better."

Santana laughed and it actually felt genuine, if short. "Thanks." 

"I know that nothing's fixed," Brittany said, kissing her again, "but we can still feel better. Okay? We can be sad when it's time to be sad, but right now we can try to feel better."

Nodding, Santana kissed her and waited for that old comfort to work. It did. Next she trailed her lips along Brittany's throat, and slowly to the peak of one of her breasts. Brittany sighed happily and, in a tangle of limbs as they moved together, somehow got herself back to her old position propped up on the pillows. As Santana's tongue circled her nipple and it stiffened, the rest of Brittany's body went slack like someone had cut too-tight wires. She only giggled as Santana kissed her way down her flat belly.

"You're beautiful," Santana told her. Brittany was alive, beautiful, and happy, and the thought of her dying made Santana want to hold on so tightly that no one could ever get by to hurt her.

"Just think about us," Brittany said when she saw Santana's expression wobble. "About me."

"I am," Santana whispered and leaned close. Santana's hand wandered between Brittany's legs again, and the heel of her hand pressed down where Santana knew she had to be aching for attention. Gasping, Brittany rocked against it. Warmth began to flow from her anew. She opened easily to accept Santana's fingers, with a soundtrack of short, breathy cries. Santana's mouth worked against her skin again, starting at her navel and slowly, lovingly working its way toward her clit.

She barely thought about what she was doing. Only Brittany's reactions mattered, because each one meant that she was breathing. _This_ was fighting off death with life, Santana thought distantly as Brittany gasped, flushed warm, and gripped Santana's hair in the rush of her orgasm. This was everything good in the world.

Next, after she'd waited out each last quivering remnant, Brittany flipped Santana under her and returned the attention. For a while everything felt like it might work out in the end.

The doorbell cutting into their drowsy cuddling nearly gave her a headache, but Santana forced herself to stand. The world kept turning, and so she had to film Christmas shopping scenes that evening. Christ. Her producers had heard that _someone_ had died, and thankfully had kept their noses out of private business, but they still had schedules to meet. It should have nearly been the winter break in filming, but their editor had screamed for more incidental shots to set the scene of Manhattan at Christmas. She and Quinn would spend all evening walking into stores, walking back out, and approaching them from another angle. 

"Hey," Quinn said when Santana opened the door. Her eyes flicked down and trailed along the collar of Santana's robe and her exposed shoulder.

Santana pulled absently it over her bare skin. "Hey. What's up?"

"Artie called me. He didn't forget to call you and Brittany, because I promised I'd come right over and tell you both." Quinn inhaled, like the words needed a push behind them.

Oh.

They'd set the time for the funeral.

* * *

They'd set the time for the funeral.

It felt real, now. Even more real than it had before. Puck's coworkers didn't know what to make of him when he'd showed up with a shaved head. "He didn't like it," Puck said to the first guy to ask. "So I got rid of it."

No one talked to him for the rest of that day and he lived in silence until quitting time. Yes, he'd work with Rachel on the weekends, and yes, he'd force himself to talk to his friends enough so they didn't break into his apartment again. But right then, in the routine of work, he'd stay silent. Then he got home and, for whatever reason, decided to answer the call that came from Finn. And Finn told him that they'd set the time for the funeral. Yeah. So that was that.

The next morning arrived and two men forced their way past his silent shield. "Here." 

Puck looked uncomprehendingly at the bag offered to him by his co-workers. Javier, a broad guy with a salt-and-pepper beard over his permanently flushed face, shoved it at him again. "Take it, kid." The heavy sounds and scents of the East River washed over them all; that had been the only soundtrack for many of Puck's days.

Puck did. Opening the bag revealed two six-packs of beer. "Thanks," he said uncertainly.

"My Meg died," said Hank, a tall, drawn man who looked too frail for physical labor but was wiry under his coveralls. "Six years back. It was sudden, too. People got on my case for showing up to work, like it meant that I didn't love her." He shook his head. "Other people yelled at the foreman for making me come in. They thought I'd lose my job if I didn't clock in, even after it happened. But I wanted to work."

"Yeah," Puck said. "A friend told me that I needed to just...."

"Put one foot in front of the other," Hank agreed. "At first you have to watch where you're going. Then you get used to it, and you don't have to think so much. You can start looking up and see what's around you again."

"That's deep," Javier said. He might have even been sincere.

Puck looked at the bag and swallowed. The alcohol was tempting; he'd love nothing more than to lose himself and his memories in it again. But if he was going to put one foot in front of the other, Puck thought, he needed to be able to walk in a straight line. "I've been making some bad moves with beer in me," he said and handed the bag back. "I mean, thanks. But I don't think I'll be able to stop if I start up too much."

Sympathy was writ large in Hank's eyes. "Yeah. I get you. I'll save these for a poker game."

"They're not carding you at the bars, huh?" Javier asked.

"I guess I look older," Puck said.

"Yeah," Hank said. "You do. I did, too."

Something in Puck ripped open like he was discovering tears all over again. That kept happening, dammit. He ducked his head down quickly, as if that would hide his expression, and balled his fists like there were some enemy he could fight. When he felt sure that his cheeks would stay dry, he lifted his head again. Only Hank remained. 

"Javier thought you could use the space," Hank said. "You loved him, huh?"

In his story, Puck had played hero and monster. He was the knight riding to the rescue and the dragon to be slain. Their love had felt as great as those tales and like it deserved a happily ever after. Adrift like he was, he felt wholly lost. They were supposed to get that perfect ending. 

"Yeah," Hank said after watching Puck struggle for words. "You did. Come on. We've got more palettes than we know what to do with waiting for us. You're going to go to the first one, unload it to the warehouse, and move to the second one. You hear me?" At Puck's nod, he clapped him on the shoulder. "Good. One foot in front of the other."

Puck started walking for the docks. He didn't trip, but it was a close thing. Not once had any of these guys ever acted like what Puck had was real. He hadn't known before, but some of them cared. He'd thought none of them did.

Yeah. He'd work with Rachel. Maybe he'd even spend some nights at the Tower, and talk to people. On purpose.

* * *

_Half a world away, people mourned and talked about the future and planned outfits for what was, for some, their first funeral._

_In Latveria, Victor von Doom's nanobots held back and reversed decay. That battle against the natural process slowed their work. It would have been a week's effort to only repair cuts and to fill the giant bloody hole left of a chest. Forced to work at keeping every cell of the body fresh, it took a month._

_During that month in New York, people attended a funeral, made connections, and set decisions into motion. They found new paths. Slowly, unwillingly, they got used to living in a world without a friend or son or brother or lover in it. Some faced the unpleasant realization that it could happen to all of them, and took comfort in who and what they did still have. Some ripped further apart._

_Their time will come. In New York, time progressed normally, and things happened in sequence, as they should._

_In the tiny world inside the glowing seals, time stretched and twisted and broke. A month on the calendar felt both like a week and a year that he'd been trapped in there. The only true clock he had was the closing wound in the body's chest. One day, finally, it was healed and the skin was smooth and pale._

_He knew to fear, then, even more than before._

_The priests were brought in again. Although he hadn't seen them when they'd cast their seals, he recognized their work. Those men felt like the same bars that were holding him, and though he was already wary of religion, they were a thousand times worse. This was no church he recognized. Those chants were nothing he'd heard before._

_Nothing good would come of Doom himself stepping into the room and holding up his gauntleted hand to focus their power._

_With one great, painful stab, soul was forced back into body and Kurt woke up. He gasped, arching away from the cold stone, and clawed at nothing when the seals still held him inside his prison. He tried to cry out, but his throat was dry and no words came. If he'd been tearing at anything but open air, his fingers would be bleeding. He was incoherent, a terrified caged animal._

_"Stop moving," said Doom._

_Kurt did._

_That hadn't been him; his arms had simply frozen. He could still feel the tiny, skittering presence of the nanobots inside him like minuscule ants crawling. They were inside every muscle in his body and he was still tainted by whatever magic had happened in that room. When Doom spoke, he'd acted._

_"Good," Doom said, and it almost sounded like he was smiling. "Very good. Doom is pleased." He waved his hand and the seals disappeared. "Stand for inspection."_

_Kurt did. Though disoriented and frightened, he still felt his body move on its own. The pounding of his heart—living was so loud—drowned out the tiny nanobots, but it felt like it would burst through his rebuilt chest. Only then did he realize he'd been restored without any clothes to interrupt the process and that everyone was looking at him. He tried to run but his feet wouldn't move._

_"State your name," Doom said._

_Kurt swallowed. "Kurt Hummel."_

_"How very European. Funny. You sound as if you already belong here, so perhaps this all was destiny. This is Latveria," he said, gesturing around them, "but of course you already know that. And you know for whom you work."_

_His puppet-like body left no doubt there, no. "You," Kurt said. The word shook._

_"You work for Doom," he confirmed. "And as you have already discovered, you will follow orders."_


	10. Count Your Blessings Now

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

Mercedes felt like she would scream if she heard those words one more time. She didn't know how Burt and Carole managed it, since they were getting more of those platitudes than anyone. 

She'd felt like she'd 'lost' Kurt months ago when their lives stopped fitting so easily together, but she hadn't understood loss, then. Total loss was when it wasn't just hard to pin a person down for lunch, or when their big plans to hit karaoke clubs turned into 'let's do one trip now, and we'll make another next month.' No, total loss was when the person was _gone_ , bam, never to be seen again. Dead. Cold.

She felt like she would never want to celebrate another Thanksgiving. She, Mike, and Tina had flown home as planned, assuming that family would be a comfort after they'd gotten the bad news. But then Mercedes had to deal with the crowded airport and a packed-full plane with a chatty man in the center seat. It was only when she actually started crying that he took the hint and shut up. 

Mercedes didn't know if Quinn and Puck (poor Puck) had made the trip to Lima; theirs were the only other families to still live in the town. She couldn't muster the energy to care about them while she was in Ohio, for when her family expressed all their sympathies, she realized what a terrible mistake she'd made in coming. They wanted to talk about everything and so she had to face Kurt's death head-on no matter what _she_ wanted. She couldn't run, she couldn't hide, and even the typical comforts of prayer and Thanksgiving cooking felt like a prison. 

Tina and Mike had done better, going home, but they hadn't been as close to Kurt and their families had barely known him. Mercedes' family loved Kurt, and it was like she was expected to deliver all of the information they wanted to know. 

Mercedes was too relieved to feel guilty when she fled back to New York. She and Tina obsessed over bad movies, and both Sam and Mike made ample time to come over. Sam had been a more attentive boyfriend than he'd managed in months. Mercedes was a devoted girlfriend again. The reunion was all too convenient for either of them to feel ashamed over how they'd let their busy lives take precedence over each other. They didn't really talk about the months they'd spent growing apart and just accepted that things were better.

But now she had to face the funeral and things were definitely not better. When another stranger said "I'm so sorry," Mercedes started looking for someone, _anyone_ that she could pull into a different conversation. Sam and Mike were busy getting their final instructions as pallbearers and Tina was in the bathroom. Mercedes circled the room with intent, looking for any familiar faces.

"Hey, baby," she said when she found one of the most destroyed expressions there, and pulled Puck into a hug. He let her, unresisting. "How are you doing?"

"I feel like an Alien facehugger threw up down my throat." Puck swallowed and rubbed a hand over his newly shaved head. She didn't ask about his mohawk. "And I'm just waiting for the dude in the top hat to rip through my stomach."

Well, that was evocative. "You know we're here for you, right?" she asked, although she felt a little guilty as she said it, because they hadn't all been there for each other. Not really. Kurt's death had thrown that realization into stark relief.

Puck nodded. "Yeah. Sorry I deleted your messages. Rachel came over and bitched at me until I promised to stop."

"That's... good, I think?" Mercedes kissed him on the cheek, like she remembered doing in those simple days back in high school when they'd made a show of dating. "I don't know if this is the right thing to say or not, but Kurt and I talked, you know? And he was crazy in love with you. Don't ever doubt that."

"Thanks," Puck said. "I guess that helps." Someone called for him. Puck nodded at her, stepped away, and Mercedes was left to roam the room again.

A solemn man stood next to a pale reed with red hair. Mercedes stared for a few seconds before placing them; as she did, Will Schuester and Emma Pillsbury saw her and smiled faintly. Two and a half years had carved out a lot of distance from her memories, and they looked little like she remembered. Of course, she'd never seen them so grave before. It could add a decade to a person's face.

She saw Tina emerging from a hallway and angled there. Her path to Tina led her toward Burt and Carole, where Will and Emma were also headed. The grieving parents were already talking to Hiram and Leroy Berry, who looked just as drawn.

"We're so sorry, Carole, Burt," Leroy said, nodding at each in turn.

"So sorry," echoed Hiram. "And we're sorry for not calling before. There was this mission in Oshkosh, and a time bubble that—"

"Not now," Leroy said gently and his husband quieted.

_I just want to leave,_ Mercedes thought. This wasn't doing anything for Kurt; funerals were for the living. And being here didn't make her feel better. It just made her feel tense and gross and wrong. _I want to go home and for everything to be better when I wake up._ She tried closing her eyes hard and opening them again; nope, she was still at the funeral parlor. Rats.

"Oh, god," Tina sighed as soon as Mercedes reached her. "Why? I didn't notice that he was at the service. Maybe he just _popped in_ after it was over."

Confused, Mercedes blinked until Tina pointed at who she meant: Jesse St. James, who'd previously had the courtesy to stay out of their lives. 'Why' was right. Jesse wasn't friends with Kurt, or any of them. The only person who could stand him was Rachel, and even they barely talked as she saved lives with her voice and he auditioned with his.

"And, worse: he's coming over," Tina added, clutching Mercedes' arm. "Let's go oh no he's made eye contact. Smile and don't talk. Maybe he'll leave soon."

Mercedes smiled, although one hand felt ready to ball into a fist. If Jesse started insulting people, she couldn't be held accountable for her actions.

"I'm very sorry," he said when he approached and Mercedes relaxed a tiny bit. She could feel Tina doing the same.

"How'd you hear about this?" Tina asked.

"I make it a point of informing Rachel about all the auditions that I think might suit her. Eventually she'll give up on this ridiculous superhero kick and do what she was destined for."

"Becoming famous and beloved with her big shiny voice?" Mercedes asked. She was doing a fine job of that with her superheroics. Now, with Rachel's powers, 'shiny' was even literal.

"Exactly," Jesse said, like she'd proved his point. "She was very curt the last time I stopped by, and I heard about, well... Kurt. I wanted to stop by today to offer my condolences. I know my rakish demeanor fools many people, but I'm actually extremely considerate when it suits me to be. Here," Jesse said to Tina once he'd finished lying, and offered her his card. She stared at it uncomprehendingly. "I'm giving these to everyone." Next, he pressed a card into Mercedes' hand. 

He was networking at Kurt's funeral? Mercedes was too shocked to take offense.

"I know the right people," Jesse explained. "Nothing lifts one's spirits like enjoying live theatre. Call me and I can find tickets for a show you'd like to see."

"Oh," Tina said and looked at the card again. When her head lifted, she seemed to be inspecting a stranger. "Thank you, Jesse."

Mercedes caught his hand before he moved on. "Don't give one to Puck."

"Everyone either appreciates Broadway," Jesse said, "or they haven't found the right show yet."

She held on to his wrist, even though she knew Jesse could vanish from her grip and reappear five feet over. "Puck loves him."

"Loved," Tina whispered and Mercedes barely fought back a noise of pain.

"He still loves him," Mercedes said, "and this'd make him think of Kurt in one hot second. Okay? Don't give Puck _that_ card."

When Jesse hesitated, Tina held out her hand. "Give me another card, and I’ll give it to Puck later."

That seemed to satisfy him and he peeled off a second card for Tina. "I should finish making rounds," Jesse said. "Excuse me. I don't have much time before an another audition this afternoon. It's for a secondary lead and I think I'm a lock."

"That was sort of thoughtful," Tina said as Jesse left. She tucked the cards into her purse.

Mercedes jammed hers away with less care. "For Jesse, yeah, considering he still skipped the service and just stopped by to get us to use him to buy tickets. He's probably figured out a way to get a commission off them. Sorry. I'm just in a bad mood."

"Well, yeah," Tina said. "Feel free to be in as bad of a mood as you want today. We'll cry it out later."

They hugged and Mercedes sighed deeply into her hair. "Thanks, girl. I don't know what I would have done without you for all these stupid New York years."

Tina squeezed back. Selfishly, Mercedes wondered why Tina's life seemed to run so smoothly compared to what some of them had gone through. Puck vanished for two years before coming back for Kurt; Mike and Tina never even took a break. Sam and Mercedes could barely find time for each other as they tried to build their new lives in the city; Mike and Tina worked together every day and never got sick of each other. Finn and Rachel had their big stupid breakup cycles that sometimes had Finn acting like a whiny little baby in the office; Mike and Tina comforted him and somehow managed not to seem smug about how stupidly perfect they were.

Their near-flawless couplehood was like a unicorn dating a leprechaun. If not for Brittany and Santana, Mercedes would have kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even though she barely talked to the girls any more, they were together and happy, as NBC reminded her every week, and were glamorous and exciting, too. It _was_ possible to have everything work. She just hadn't managed it.

"They're coming over," Tina said and Mercedes snapped out of her thousand-yard stare. "They probably noticed you were looking at them?" she added when Mercedes peered at her, confused.

Oh: Brittany and Santana, with their arms interlocked, were making their way through the crowd. Mercedes forced a smile onto her face and tried to focus on the here and now, and not on her slow-burning resentment.

"So." Santana hugged herself and looked around the room. "This is pretty crazy."

'Pretty crazy.' The flippant phrasing struck Mercedes exactly wrong. All she could see of Santana was the girl with network commercials, who'd extended invitations to her old friends for show and then not done a thing to make them feel welcomed among the sort of gross, clingy fame-seekers these girls now wanted to befriend. _Wow. I guess it's amazing that they showed up at all._

"They look so sad," Brittany said as she looked at Burt and Carole. "I feel really bad for them."

"A lot of people showed up," Santana said. "I guess I'm surprised."

For weeks she'd been left adrift, unable to handle her emotions. Lost. Confused. One thing Mercedes knew for sure, though, was how to argue with Santana. Tina only raised an eyebrow at Santana but Mercedes couldn't bite back her words. "Meaning? People loved Kurt, Santana, even if you seemed to stop caring about him. Or anyone."

Santana's jaw set. "I _meant_ that he was a super-secret agent and they kept Sue's funeral down to Mulder and Scully. And that 'stop caring' was a two-way street, in case you didn't notice. It's not like I didn't offer." 

"Yeah. He didn't come to your fancy parties because he didn't sell out," Mercedes said.

Santana drew back. "Meaning?"

"Meaning he worked hard for everything he got, he actually helped people, and he couldn't even tell people anything. He was alone and sometimes he was scared. I saw it in his eyes. And then he _died_ scared." Mercedes swallowed. Her head felt swampy with tears. "He didn't have a billboard in Times Square, and he didn't get to pass up missions because they wouldn't get good enough ratings."

"That's...." Santana pulled back. Offense painted her face.

"Everyone knows that's what you're doing, Santana. Last season you actually did some good around this city," Mercedes said. "And now you're either only fighting the famous names or throwing some useless party, and I'm not seeing anything else out of you." She snorted and wiped her nose. "You ever stop to think why none of us came back for a second visit to any of those parties last year? Even before they got big and stupid? Because the pretty people you invited are gross. And this Santana? She's pretty gross, too." 

"Screw you," Santana said. Her eyes were dark pools.

"That NYU coffeeshop hostage thing? We all know you had classes right near there and you could have helped. Instead, you let people get shot."

"Mercedes, maybe not now?" Tina murmured and tugged at her arm. Mercedes shrugged her off.

Santana twitched. Her mouth worked wordlessly before slamming shut. Every line of her body went tight and angry. "So, you're ignoring us because you're jealous," Santana said. Her finger stabbed toward the room that held an empty coffin. "There's someone I've known for years, and I had to hear about him in a text message? Days after everyone else knew?" Grief rolled over her voice anew. "Days? And not one person told me on purpose?"

She threw off that grief and bristled further before Mercedes answered. "Don't give me this bullshit about how I'm not doing any good, when you're hiding in a tiny office in the ass-end of Manhattan and chasing invoices. Back in Ohio you kept mentioning setting a good example for people? People who don't get represented? Well, guess what: I am. I'm a hero to girls who didn't have one, and it's not my fault that no one wants to see you on television." Her eyes raked up and down Mercedes and her chin jutted defiantly forward.

"Santana," Brittany quietly said and took Santana's arm. "Please stop."

"Your girlfriend is a bitch," Mercedes said, too hurt to think of anything else.

"Please stop," Brittany repeated, and looked meaningfully to the side. Both girls turned and saw Kurt's parents staring at them from the far side of the room. They looked haunted, but still enraged for the disrespect they were showing. "You're doing it again. Please stop."

"She started it," Santana said tightly.

"Stop it, you guys," Tina insisted. "Not _now_ , at least."

"Fine," Mercedes said. "Let's just get through this." She smiled thinly at Santana, who didn't smile back. "And then you'll never have to see any of us again."

"Screw you," Santana said and walked away.

Yeah. 

Mercedes really wanted to wake up.

* * *

"This isn't how things were supposed to work," Blaine said as he nursed a bottle of ginger ale. Rachel wondered if he felt ill; she did.

"I know." She looked around the room and felt her gut tighten each time it passed the still-closed doors to the main hall. They'd all been told to wait in the funeral home's lobby until S.H.I.E.L.D. gave clearance to move toward the cemetery. Some lower level power player might think a prize awaited them without knowing Kurt had already been taken, and strike down mourners in the process. Rachel had never been to a funeral before, but she thought they usually had a smooth progression from service to pallbearers to the hearse. Having to wait for the go-ahead had everyone on edge. "At least they let you carry, when you offered." 

Apparently, given pallbearers like Finn, Burt, and Puck, Rachel wouldn't be of any use at all. She supposed it made sense, given the marked difference in heights, but it still stung. The casket was empty, and even if she couldn't offer that much support, it didn't need a lot. It wasn't that heavy split up between all of them and both she and Mercedes had wanted to be counted.

"That's not what I meant," Blaine said and glanced again at the doors where they'd sat in front of a casket and pretended that Kurt was inside. It was agonizing. Burt had tried to say something in front of everyone, but failed. No one knew what to do and the service wound up being a rote reading from an officiant who nothing about Kurt. "It's about everything. I left him, Rachel. I left him because I was sure that I would die. I would. Me. Not him. And I was wrong."

"He didn't blame you," Rachel said and laid her hand on his suit sleeve. That was a lie. Kurt _understood_ why Blaine had done that, and he did move past it while finishing up high school in New York, but for a while he was justifiably hurt.

"Maybe he should have blamed me," Blaine said. "It turns out that I ruined things for no good reason when there wasn't much time left for him. And I did always worry about what could happen to Kurt, but the one way I was able to handle everything was...." He trailed off, frustrated. Rachel followed his gaze and saw Puck standing with Finn, who'd had to keep reassuring him that he didn't blame him for his broken arm. They'd been sure to assign Finn to a pallbearer spot that would use his good side.

When Rachel didn't say anything, Blaine finished, "Puck was supposed to keep him safe." He didn't sound accusing; he sounded as lost and confused as a young child who didn't understand why his all-powerful parents couldn't stop a beloved grandparent from falling ill. 

Still, despite those innocent intentions, Rachel squeezed his arm where she held it. "You can't ever say that." Blaine turned to her, eyes glossy and sad, but she shook her head again. "Noah's been hating himself over this. Please don't make it worse."

"I... I wasn't trying to...." Pulling out a handkerchief, Blaine dabbed at his tears, offered it to her, and tucked it away when she shook her head. "I just can't believe that I made some of the decisions I made, knowing how everything turns out. And I can't believe that he's not ever going to talk to me again." One soft laugh sounded like a sob. "Once we finally managed to discuss the matter, he demanded approval on any guy I dated to make sure they were good enough. What was going to happen after I graduated? Would I be comfortable enough with everything to move to New York, like we'd planned? I panicked and wanted to stay clear during college, but by then, maybe...."

"They were very happy," Rachel said in a low voice, still looking at Puck. "I'm not trying to be cruel, Blaine, but please don't kick yourself over what could have been." She had the distinct feeling that Blaine's 'what if' questions were spiraling toward a lost future where Puck kept Kurt safe like a bodyguard for Blaine's entire college education, and then gracefully stepped aside when Blaine reunited with a Kurt who'd overcome every single threat from his career. Blaine thinking that would be worse than just mourning a very close friend with whom he'd once been even closer.

"Because it couldn't have been," Blaine agreed. She didn't know if she'd ever heard anyone sound more wistful. "Once I made that decision. So he went on and had other dates, and saw that other agent, and then...." His gaze ripped away from Puck. "They really were happy?"

Rachel judged whether he wanted to hear the truth, and came down on the side of yes. "When they reunited after Puck was away, it was like a perfect storybook ending. He did have that for a while, yes. They were happy."

"That's good," Blaine said, and even sounded to mean it. "I should go express my condolences. I don't know if I'll be able to get out much of anything, but I should." With a quick smile, he left her and walked that way.

There had been funerals in Lima, Rachel thought sadly as she looked around the room. It wasn't their fault that they'd been hidden in that town, but people had died from the Rifts' assault regardless. Their classmates had died, targeted for information by Shelby Corcoran. Random innocents had been caught in the crossfire. Had those families all felt like this? Rachel looked around the room, teary-eyed. She blinked hard until her vision cleared. 

Blaine and Puck were talking, nodding, and staring at the floor. Finn was a tight knot with his parents, now, and she wouldn't intrude on their family again with her grief. They had enough of their own. 

Tina and Mercedes were with their boyfriends. Rachel let them be, as well. Quinn and Artie talked as Santana and Brittany embraced. Good. Everyone was taken care of. She'd done her part, Rachel thought, and walked rigidly away. Everyone was dealing with their emotions and she'd tended to everyone as appropriate. She'd helped. She'd led, just like Steve had told her to. All of those families had died in Lima, and she'd decided that she owed it to all of them to be a good leader. She had to do everything the right way.

She left the guest area for an adjoining building meant for the employees and the bodies they tended. Rachel found a small bathroom deep inside its halls before she stopped. No one would hear her and she wouldn't expect anyone to offer a shoulder after what she did next. She was trying to be a leader, after all. Leaders helped people. They didn't make others take care of them.

With measured motions, Rachel closed the door, locked it, and stood before the mirror. Her eyes were red. They'd been red for days. She'd held it together because she knew other people couldn't. Now she was alone and the funeral was done.

Her first high, keening cry shattered the mirror. Her second howl destroyed the hand dryer. She tried to gulp back her grief, but the dam had been breached. She'd held on for too long and her pain had grown too strong. She thought of childhood singing lessons and the sink exploded. She cried for the memory of sleepovers and tiles erupted under her feet. Rachel thought of a voice stilled forever and the lights burst above her head. 

It was completely dark, then. Ruptured pipes spilled water. Rachel found silence.

She reached into her pocket, located a tissue by touch, and wiped her face. Rachel breathed in and out, deeply, and found the door by the crack of light under its edge. "Hello, Tony," she said into her cell phone as she walked down the hallway. Her voice barely shook. "I'm afraid that I'm going to need to you to write these people a check for damages."

* * *

Mercedes had never seen so many casseroles in one place before. She didn't know if she'd seen so many over the course of her whole life. The casket (it was hard to think of it as _Kurt's_ , really) had been lowered into the ground quickly. December was a bad time for a funeral; snow was already falling and more was on the way. Even Burt and Carole, numb with grief, had been easily convinced to leave the cemetery and head to their nearby house for the gathering to follow.

Most of the people there were their coworkers and neighbors, and every last one of them seemed to have brought a casserole. It was past considerate and approaching ridiculous.

"It's so they don't have to think about cooking for a while," Tina explained as she and Mercedes sat on Finn's bed and played with the increasingly gangly puppies. When Frankie and Lou had started nosing at mourners' outfits and trying to sniff the food left on tables, the quartet had decided it was their responsibility to keep the dogs occupied and the reception running smoothly. Mike and Sam, on the floor, occasionally pulled one close regardless of the fur left behind on their suits. 

Mercedes tried not to look at the hallway. There was a closed door directly opposite Finn's and she was pretty sure she knew whose room that had been. "Oh, I know all about casseroles," Mercedes said as she rumpled the loose skin around Frankie's neck. "My church in Ohio was really big on that. I've just never seen _so_ many before. I guess people at Burt's work really like him." Stark Industries was well represented among the people dropping in, even if they didn't stay for long.

That Stark fabrication center was nearby while S.H.I.E.L.D.'s offices were off in Manhattan, but they knew that wasn't the only reason that some obvious faces from Carole's agency hadn't shown up. "Do you think Carole really told Fury to go... you know, do something to himself?" Mike asked quietly, like that terrifying man in the eyepatch might somehow hear him. It was apparently standard for him to appear at agents' services, but he hadn't shown that day.

"I bet she told him not to come," Tina said, "but she was probably polite about it." A beat passed. "I mean, probably."

"Knock knock."

Startled, the four looked at the door and the man who'd announced his arrival. Three of them blinked at someone they hadn't seen since Rachel's karaoke party. Sam, who'd never met Tony Stark before, froze. "You're Tony Stark," he said.

"Impressed?"

"You're Tony Stark and you're Iron Man."

"I take it that's a yes." Tony hooked a thumb at Sam. "Is he always like this?"

Mercedes gently stroked Sam's shoulder and hoped he wouldn't embarrass himself further. "Hi, Mr. Stark. Um... what are you doing here? Do you need to get Rachel for something? Because she's probably keeping people away from Finn's arm so that no one smacks his cast. The house is pretty crowded."

He shook his head. "Mr. Hummel's been a loyal, long-term employee, and I do work with S.H.I.E.L.D. on a regular basis." Tony shrugged and held up a briefcase. "It seemed like the decent thing to do to swing by and offer my sympathies in person."

Sam stared at the case, and then whispered desperately against Mercedes' ear, "I think that's his suit."

"Yeah," Mercedes whispered back, "it's his suit, and this is still Kurt's funeral." That deflated Sam to appropriate levels and Mercedes returned her attention to Tony. "It's just us in here. Who were you looking for?"

"Since I'm here: who handles your company's finances?"

The four looked between themselves, frowning, and Mercedes raises a hesitant hand. "I guess I do. I mean, I took some classes in Excel and bookkeeping."

"That's adorable," Tony said. "Can I talk to you in the hall? I don't want those dogs shedding on my suit, since I can tell from looking at all of you that they're really good at it."

"I'll go talk to him," Mercedes said, internally shaking her head. From Rachel's party she knew that, even on a happier day, she could never be impressed by someone as obnoxious as Tony Stark. "Stay here," she told the still-awed Sam, just to be on the safe side, and walked out to join Tony in whatever conversation he hoped to hold.

"You. You were at that party, with the karaoke and Bruce trying to pound your telepath into a little psychic smear on my extremely expensive carpet." Tony Stark snapped his fingers and Mercedes realized that he was trying to remember her name. "You're, uh...." He trailed off and looked down. After a long, lingering look at her breasts, he met her eyes again. "Anyway, we want to help you out."

She folded her arms uncomfortably over her chest. "How?"

"You're Rachel's friends. I got a call from Rachel that told me just what a very, very bad day she's having. We like Rachel, and so we're willing to offer a helping hand to the people she cares about."

A helping hand, huh? Mercedes frowned. "But Kurt still died."

Tony smiled sympathetically. "Then, there was nothing we could have done. Missions are missions, and he's not the first good man who'll die on one."

Mercedes looked away.

"Here," Tony said. "Take it," he said when she ignored him, and started prodding her upper arm with something. It was a business card, Mercedes saw when she acknowledged Tony. "Call that number. It's my executive assistant. Ms. Potts can put you in touch with a woman named Agatha Walker. She's eighty-two, looks about two hundred, and still has a controlling interest in all the firms her late husband founded."

"All right. But why?"

"Ghosts."

Her frown deepened as she worked through that. "Someone's been trying to scare her with 'ghosts' to get her money?"

"No, she actually has ghosts in her mansion. A psychic and environmental inspector both verified it. It was like Ghostbusters." Tony snorted. "She complained to me at my last charity ball. I promised her I'd find a way to fix it for her, but she still took too long to leave me alone. By then, Megan Fox got bored and wandered off." At Mercedes' wary stare, Tony continued, "She's rich and she pays way too well. Take the job, get a fat check, and get your little company onto steady ground. You're welcome."

"We don't know how to deal with ghosts," Mercedes said, but carefully tucked away the card like she hadn't for Jesse's. She was thinking about her firm, she told herself. She definitely wasn't thinking about ghosts and dead people and uneasy spirits. _Kurt died suddenly. He had unfinished business. Was he trapped there, too? Was Kurt a ghost? Would that mean that they could see him again?_ Mercedes shook her head. Her thoughts sluiced out and ran down her spine like ice water.

"Fair enough," Tony said and dug out his phone. He tapped something onto it. "There's more contact information waiting for you. Stephen Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme. He's down near NYU. He'll have something you can use to deal with ghosts. Just tell him I sent you and consider it another consolation gift."

"Thanks, but... waiting where?" Mercedes asked. "Voicemail, text, phone...?"

"Yes," Tony said.

"All right," Mercedes said, struck with sudden guilt for discussing business right after Kurt's funeral. What was wrong with her? "Thank you. This will really help us out."

"Also, let me know how much you want for what's his name. Hudson," Tony Stark added. "We could use a telepath, even if he does probably walk into walls when he thinks too hard."

Mercedes' jaw set again and she tried to smile politely. Tony wandered back to the living room, uncaring that he'd just offered to _buy_ one of them. "It's a day full of business cards," she told them as she returned to her friends. "Tony wants us to go fix some lady's ghost infestation."

"Do we know how to deal with ghosts?" Mike asked.

"He told us that, too, and apparently it's going to be worth a ton of money." Mercedes dug out the card and frowned at it again. Just in time, she managed to bite back the words that logically followed: if everything Tony had told her held true, it was their lucky day. _What is wrong with you?_ she asked herself. Happy over reuniting with Sam, happy over a lucky business venture, arguing with Santana in front of Kurt's parents; she was acting terribly.

Another knock sounded on the door and Mercedes turned, not wanting to deal with Tony any more. It wasn't him, but the face there left her just as wary. "Hey," Brittany said. "You all need to get your coats and come outside."

"It's snowing," Tina said.

"I know. That means that everyone else is inside, and we can all talk there without people bugging us."

"All of us?" Mike repeated.

"Yeah. All of us. Because everyone's been sucky and unhappy and lonely, and I hate it and want to fix it. So, move." When they hesitated, Brittany folded her arms below her breasts and arched one eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure I can make you do anything I want with my magical genie powers, so you should really listen to what I say."

"Don't threaten us with your powers," Tina said, but she did stand. "They're weird." Under Brittany's watchful eye, they put on their coats and migrated to the back deck together. Everyone from New Directions was there when they arrived, along with Blaine. They were all cold and snowed-on and most had their hands shoved under their arms. Finn, awkward in his cast, had a heavy jacket draped over him and looked the most irritated out of anyone.

"Okay, so thanks for coming out here," Brittany said. "Because we needed to talk, and it was loud inside and it smelled really good and I was getting distracted." When she saw a few confused looks, she explained, "The casseroles."

"Can we hurry this up?" Santana asked. "Whatever 'this' is?"

"Why, do you have a wardrobe fitting?" Mercedes asked, sickly sweet.

"Not until tomorrow," Quinn said. "And I don't know what that tone is supposed to mean, Mercedes. It's part of our job."

"That's not the—"

_Shut up!_ Finn snapped inside everyone's mind and they quieted. _This is my brother's fucking funeral._

"Thank you, Finn," Brittany said and turned to everyone like that had been a planned part of her speech. "So, basically: everyone's acting bad and they need to stop, especially at Kurt's fucking funeral." And then she nodded, like that was enough. 

Mercedes side-eyed the innocent repetition of Finn's angry words, then sighed. "Fine. Can we go inside, now? Artie's making patterns in the snow with his wheels. I don't think we're up for paying much attention right now. But whatever, we'll be nice."

"It's not just acting nice," Rachel said quietly, but something about the gravity in her voice made everyone turn to her. "Do you remember when we first came together at that government school, before we got our powers? Santana, you met Brittany and your whole life changed."

The girls exchanged smiles, though Santana's was weaker.

"Quinn, you made real friends and you finally stopped feeling so alone. We came together and became better, and then we got our powers, and we became something great. Even when people tried to split us up, we found each other again. We overcame an entire alien world trying to kill us... and then, somehow, we destroyed ourselves."

"We had something great," Puck said hollowly, looking at his feet, "and then it just wasn't there any more."

"She's right," Tina said. "I know we're here because of what happened to Kurt, but this isn't just about that. I miss you guys. It's not just that our lives are growing apart, but we're, like... mad at each other over it."

"I'm not mad," Artie said, though he didn't argue with the general premise. "I'm kinda sad, but not mad."

"That's bad enough," Quinn said. "But he's right, and so's Brittany. I really miss you guys. It was like you were the first real friends I ever had, and now I'm working for these people who try to control every second of my life. I miss being around people who actually know me." She laughed. It sounded dry as sawdust. "People on message boards are actually betting who I'm going to sleep with first on the Avengers, when I don't even want to date anyone right now. But my producers don't see me; they just see a Barbie doll to pair off with the first Ken they can find."

As Mercedes took that in, frowning, she saw Santana's dark stare focus right on her. After a beat, Santana said, "And I'm getting shuffled off to the side because I don't like dick and they figure they finally have a romance plot that's all about a big, swinging white one. Even though Brit and I just _existing_ has convinced kids not to kill themselves."

"Yeah. We saved this girl from some people who kidnapped her to... do stuff," Mike said, glancing at Finn. Mercedes remembered that case. Finn trying to read minds had left him physically ill from what they'd contained, and if the other three of them hadn't been able to supplement his readings with traditional investigation, they never would have found where she'd been taken. "But the family couldn't really pay, so we said that was fine. And then we just kind of didn't really eat for a few days."

"I thought no one cared about me," Puck mumbled. "About what I felt. And so I went off alone and... things just sucked."

"I don't have any big, dramatic stories," Artie said when the slow progression they'd formed reached him. "My life's been okay, but it's like I'm falling into all these new habits that are about things and not people. I miss you guys. It's like I got used to seeing you every day, like you were my fingers or something, and then my fingers just started falling off. Please pretend I made a better comparison."

"And I was kidnapped and brainwashed," Rachel said. "When Finn and Ms. Frost showed up, I didn't know them. I thought they were there to attack me. I was alone in London, just like we started off alone in Ohio, but _people found me._ " Tears flooded her eyes. "We have to find each other, because we've seen what happens when we don't."

"Yeah. We have to be there for each other, and for all of our friends," Brittany said, resolved, and gestured at the last two people on the deck. "Even if they're not cool like us, with powers."

"Thanks," Sam said hesitantly.

"Sam's working for a boss as mean as Sue was, and Blaine's so messed up that he's pretending to go to a school that he made up. It's really sad and we need to support them both." Brittany squeezed Blaine's shoulder, even as he blinked at her in bewilderment.

"I appreciate the concern, Brittany, but Brown is a real university."

"I'm pretty sure that it's not," she said and shrugged.

He had the sense not to argue. "Then I just appreciate the concern," Blaine said, with a few glances around the group. The lopsided smiles from a few of them, including Mercedes, said that he was right not to argue with her over that. "This is the worst I've ever felt in my life, and I've had some low points. No one at school can _really_ sympathize, though they tried. They're just... this has all been New York, with the history you have there, and I'm off in Rhode Island."

"Fake state, too," Brittany whispered. Mercedes ignored her.

"But," he continued, "it's good to know that I have friends who understand what this feels like, even if I'm not really part of the group."

"Hey," Mercedes said. "You don't need to say stuff like that. You can be part of the group."

"To be fair," Finn said, "he doesn't have superpowers and never got memorywiped to cover up his dead parents and never had Dementor aliens trying to drain his energy. I mean... I figured that's what you meant."

"It is a club with a pretty crazy cover charge to get in," Mike said, nodding.

"You can both be part of the group," Rachel insisted, and took Sam and Blaine's arms in hers. "Because it's not just about who has powers and whose has the same kind of past. It's about who will be there for each other in the future, and I think we should be. We _need_ to be, because being alone has really hurt us."

"I'm sorry that I said that your business was stupid," Santana muttered. It took Mercedes a second to realize that the words were directed to her. "I didn't know that you weren't just stalking cheating girlfriends and stuff. That sounds really great, I guess."

"I'm sorry that you have bigoted jerks for bosses," Mercedes said, not really looking at her. They weren't always the best at apologies, and especially not toward each other. "You should tell them off. You're really good at that."

"Well, that was the plan, but then we just had to, you know... mourn, first." Santana cleared her throat and tossed her hair. "Because I'm sad about Kurt. I'm super sad. So there."

"I think we should all just hug before these apologies turn into something we regret," Quinn said and held out her arms. She coughed. "Now, Santana."

Their hugs moved around the group like ripples: flowing and growing and changing. Sometimes two people apologized for the mistakes they'd made, something a group promised to talk every day. By the end, their affection centered upon the still-shattered Puck. He looked heartsick and lost, but he didn't look as hopeless as he had walking into the funeral parlor that morning. _Progress_ , Mercedes thought, and quietly resolved to not let Puck slip away from them all, even if she had to wrap him up inside one of her bubble shields and roll him to dinner like a hamster.

"We're _going_ to get together more, okay?" Quinn asked. They nodded. "And even if you can't make something in person, we're going to talk on Skype and Facebook and everything more than we've done."

"Because we can move on in a better way than we've been going," Rachel added.

"I've gotta go back inside," Finn said. "Sorry, just... I can hear that Mom and Burt are looking for me. And I think if I feel many more feelings today that I'm gonna wind up screaming."

"And kicking over chairs," Artie added.

"Probably." Finn's expression wasn't quite a smile, but it was close. Perhaps having two weeks before the funeral had been a positive, after all. They'd been able to move past the initial shock enough that, by now, they could feel things beyond sadness. "Come on, guys. It's really freaking cold out here."

They moved like a flock of birds in unison, like they hadn't for a very long time. Tina and Brittany guided Puck, as if they were worried that he might otherwise just stay out there and wait to freeze. Mercedes, sad, remembered the video she'd once watched of the two girls together. It had been Kurt between them, then. 

She shook her head and tried to focus on anything besides her lost friend. "That was pretty good leader talk," Mercedes said as she and Rachel walked back inside.

"Thank you," Rachel said. "It wasn't perfect, but I still feel like I owe it to all those people back in Ohio, and... and I'm just trying."

"Yeah," Mercedes said, kicking snow off her shoes before she stepped through the sliding glass door. "We all are."


	11. The Rise and Fall

Though no one admitted it, some of Kurt's friends could tell that things looked a little brighter after he died. Even subconsciously approaching the idea made them uneasy and they quickly thought of anything else. Still, there was no denying that the catalyst of his funeral had changed many things for the better. Not only had they reconnected, but things had become so suddenly and violently _real_ that many of their smaller problems seemed manageable.

"I'm not dating anyone," Quinn told Tommy in a plush NBC office, and only shrugged when her producer's lips thinned. Production had broken for the holidays and they weren't filming again until January, but they'd offered to pay a crew extra to follow her around. A Christmas romance with either the Norse god of thunder or the world's first superhero was something that _no_ other network could claim, and they wanted in on it.

"You agreed to this," he said. "We're building our entire return around this storyline. They've probably already got the promos done."

"No. Not once did I agree to this." She saw him about to raise protest. "Not once. You decided to railroad me and I'm sick and tired of it. If you want romance, go film Santana and Brittany skating at Rockefeller Center or something. I'm sure it'll be adorable."

"But they're—"

"Adorable."

Tommy huffed. "They're old news. They've been in place since day one and we have the chance for something new. We need to keep things fresh, Quinn, or people will start tuning out."

"Oh. 'Old news.' So that's the reason you've practically twisted an ankle running away from the two of them this past month?" Quinn smiled. "I see. Well, I understand that you want to keep things fresh. Maybe we should be saving lives instead of holding a bunch of parties, then?" She was the picture of innocence when she shrugged. "Saving lives is exciting, but there are a million shows on the air with a bunch of jerks at fancy parties. That's not very exciting."

He looked away, clearly not wanting to admit something. Quinn guessed, "Hosting parties is cheap and filming permits for heroics are expensive?" At the sigh that earned, she added, "And brand placement is harder when we're only wearing our costumes?"

"This is a business, Quinn," Tommy said. "There was absolutely nothing keeping you from going out and throwing around your little icicles on your own, but you wanted the fame, the fancy apartment, and the tuition waiver. Yes, we have budget concerns. Yes, the network's worried about the liability each time they send you two out into the fray, and they want to make sure that each encounter is big enough to cover any legal fees if something goes wrong. Do you realize how many people are involved with this production? The lawyers, the location scouts... even the interns?"

She didn't want to admit any of that, no. The Hulk had carved out handholds in a skyscraper the last time the Avengers went out on the town and she knew that Tony Stark had written quite a sizable check for them to make repairs. NBC had probably covered some costs from their own work: cars scorched by Santana's fireballs, broken bones from people slipping on Quinn's ice. Although she understood that their accountants must hate every penny spent, she couldn't understand in her heart why they could possibly care more about those dollars than the lives they'd saved.

"Every brand placement is money that we can pour into location prep, legal fees, government contacts... this is an empire we're building, here. You're an incredibly complicated show, Quinn. We have to work with a university and a landlord and the city and the network _and_ the government!" Tommy ran a hand over his face. His skin was paper-dry, like always, but a normal person would probably be sweating. 

Everything he was saying was so reasonable, even if Quinn seldom had to think about those concerns, that she started to feel a little bad. No, she never really had thought about the salaries of the grips or the caterers. "All right, I understand that, but... I'm not dating them and that's final."

"Final?"

Quinn inhaled, centered her strength, and exhaled. "Yes, Tommy. And I'm sorry, but I'm not changing my mind on this."

* * *

"I remember you from Rachel's party," said Steve Rogers as the car pulled away from the Tower, on the day before Quinn's meeting with her producer. "Thanks for inviting me. I miss the community each week. Going with Miss Fabray was nice, but there sure were a lot of cameras there."

In her Sunday best, Mercedes patted his hand. "You're welcome to come any time you want. I found this church when I moved back to the city and the congregation's great." It had taken a few false starts, but she'd found a home that balanced her world view and a deep theological anchor; that spanned both joyful music and a reverend who clearly knew his stuff.

"I probably don't keep up with reading as much as I should," Steve said, "but still, everything here's crazy. Even crazier than where I'm from, actually. It's nice to have those few hours each week when someone can talk about the world and have it all make sense." He looked at her. "I'm not going to drag the cameras there, too, am I? I don't want to disturb anyone."

"You might," Mercedes admitted, "but as soon as they see that you're not with Quinn, they'll probably take a few more rounds and then leave you alone. It'll be a lot better than when you went with her, trust me. She and I talked about this, and we knew it'd solve a lot of problems if you went to my church instead of hers. No one cares about me." It still stung to know how plushly Quinn and Santana lived, but if there was one common thread that bound her and Quinn together even across their different lives, it was their faith. After agreeing that it was outrageous that the paparazzi had turned something as innocent as a church visit into evidence of Quinn's supposed affair, Mercedes came up with a plan to change things for the better.

"Well, they should care," Steve said. "You seem very nice."

She shoved his shoulder good-naturedly. This guy was too sweet to be real.

On Mercedes' other side, Sam let out a soft, high noise like a lost kitten. Mercedes didn't know if he'd blinked since they'd left Steve's home. Without looking, she threaded her fingers though his and squeezed, hoping to anchor him before he pulled another embarrassing fanboy scene like the one in front of Tony Stark. 

It sort of worked.

* * *

Tommy, irritated, brought up his computer. Quinn could see familiar gossip site logos reflected in his glasses, but kept a calm expression as he verified that her story was true. "It didn't get any traction because they didn't know those people with him," he said. "And because it was a couple, he didn't look like he dumped you for that black girl."

"That black girl?" Quinn repeated. Her eyebrows rose. "And he couldn't _dump_ me because we are not dating."

"You're—"

"We are not dating!" she said, biting each word cleanly off.

His fingers tapped a solemn progression on his desk. Quinn, swallowing, was struck suddenly by just how expensive the office was, how finely his suit was tailored, and just how large a building held their meeting. She wanted to regain her boundaries, but she also knew that the best way to do so wasn't always to pull a full Santana: full speed ahead, rage on high, and damn the consequences. When she spoke again, she sounded far more conciliatory. "I know the network has a big investment in us. I really understand that. You signed on for getting the real people behind the masks, though, and we just want to stick to that. This year we feel like we're following scripts, and we didn't sign on to be actors."

When Tommy couldn't fight back an awkward expression that told her that yes, they did expect them to be actors, Quinn leaned forward. "We have a lot of super-powered friends who you haven't even touched, just because they don't look like they spent five hundred dollars on their haircuts. And they're all gorgeous, but you've ignored every friend of ours who isn't going to be an inventor who you're hoping will advertise on the network when he hits it big. Why? Let us spend more time around our friends. Let us save lives. Look, I... I can't speak for Santana, but I'd take less in salary if it would cover the legal fees. I just want to help people."

"Would you give up your free tuition?" he asked snidely.

"I also want to help me," Quinn admitted, "but we have to reach some sort of compromise here, and I know that we can."

"All right, so Steve Rogers is out of the picture," he said. "We'll want to talk to Thor. I'm not saying we'll _force_ anything, of course. But Quinn, be reasonable. Who's to say that, given a little time alone, you wouldn't change your mind and... please tell me why you're giving me that look. Tell me. I want to know. Horrify me."

"Well... Steve wasn't the only person I talked to my friends about...."

* * *

"This might be the strangest favor I've ever been asked," Blaine admitted as he looked up at quite possibly the largest person he'd ever met. It was a day of superlatives.

"Greetings," said Thor, very politely. "I understand that my huntress has sent you to talk with me. Her attention encourages me, as I was concerned that she was instead falling for my good friend Steven. While I could not begrudge him this victory, it's never a pleasant feeling to lose, in battle or in love."

_Please stop talking_ , Blaine thought as he struggled to keep the frozen smile on his face. _Every word you say only makes this weirder._ "She did ask me if I would stop by the Tower on the way home, but it's not for... that reason."

Thor gestured for him to continue.

"Quinn thinks that you're making a mistake. You don't have to do what we're suggesting, but we're hoping that you'll at least hear us out."

"You are intriguing and confusing me."

"You can do incredibly powerful things," Blaine said and saw Thor smile with approval. "You're quite possibly the strongest person in this city, for all I know."

"She sent you to praise me? Then I accept, gladly."

"That's... no." Blaine ran a hand over his face. Dealing with professors was so much easier than dealing with superheroes, even if some of them hadn't given him paper extensions for the funeral. "No. You're powerful and so you have powerful enemies, but you're in love with someone who's not powerful like you."

Thor drew back and Blaine could see that Quinn's suspicions were right. The woman Steve had mentioned was someone that he loved deeply, and he'd stepped away for what he thought was her own good. "Jane Foster," he said softly. "Yes, that is correct."

"I'm like her, I suppose, in that I don't have any powers."

"I should have expected as much," Thor said. "You are small and do not have the air of one touched by godlike abilities."

Blaine's mouth thinned. Even with his desire to get back to campus, he was happy to help Quinn after she'd asked and he felt sympathy for the situation he was about to describe. But he wasn't about to put up with this. "I'm nearly as big as your boss."

"I do not have 'a boss.'"

"He paid for this building, didn't he?"

"Ah, you are referring to Tony Stark!" Thor said, and then sobered again. "Yes, you are of a size with him, and I call Tony small, as well. I call most people small." Pausing, he tilted his head, and his voice was sad when he continued. "Humans are frail, aren't you?"

Well, so long as that brush was being applied broadly, he could deal with the descriptor. Thor himself was on the 'freakishly large' size, anyway. "That's what I thought," Blaine said, determined to get back on track. "I nearly got hurt when... I actually did get hurt when...." He shook his head. "I was in love with someone with powers, and I knew that staying near him would... what? Why are you making that expression?"

"I do not understand Earth on this point," Thor said. "In Asgard, we did not lay with men as one lays with a woman."

Now that Blaine thought of it, Norse mythology was notably lacking on the topic, yes. "If you're a god in love with a human, isn't that more unusual in your worldview than a man loving a man?"

Thor paused and his eyebrows rose. "You make an excellent point, small man." He saw Blaine's eyes darken and grinned. "As small as Tony Stark, I know. Very well, you have opened my eyes. Continue."

"I knew that staying near him would probably get me killed, just like you were worried about for Jane. So I dumped him. I said that I wanted to stay friends, but I couldn't be near him if it meant that I'd probably only have a year or two with him before someone killed me to make a point." The sadness of the funeral began to hit him anew, and his voice was achingly sad when he continued, "I still love him as a friend, and probably a little more, but... in the end, it wasn't me who died. I was just at his funeral."

Thor sobered. "Rachel's friend."

"Yes." Blaine exhaled. "Trying to say that I _knew_ what would keep me safe wound up being enormously misguided, and all it probably managed to accomplish was ruining something great. That's why Quinn asked me to talk to you. Explain the risks to Jane and let her make her own decision. She might make a different choice than I did, years back."

"You make another good point," Thor said, "and I am glad Quinn sent you to share your wisdom."

Blaine smiled. 

"I will speak with her," Thor decided. "You have served your purpose well, and I will tell Quinn that her messenger performed as she wished. If I ever see her again," he added when Blaine looked at him pointedly.

"Well, good. And good luck," Blaine said and found himself actually meaning it. He did think Thor was faintly ridiculous, but he clearly cared about this woman. Hopefully they could make it work. "I need to be going, then. I don't want to push my luck getting home. I need to get back to Brown in plenty of time to finish papers. Amazingly, my professors don't seem to care that it feels like I had my heart ripped out and shredded."

"Brown?"

"It's a real university," Blaine said, just in case he held the same opinion as Brittany.

"Ah, an academy. I know of MIT," Thor said. "That is where Tony Stark learned of how to make mechanical arms, and to do keg stands."

"That's...." Blaine hesitated. "Wasn't he just a teenager when he went?" He wasn't any particular fan of Tony Stark, but the man's legacy had filtered into public awareness thanks to his relentless self-promotion.

"Yes."

"Right. Well." He moved to offer his hand, thought better of it, and just nodded a farewell at the god. "Good luck."

"And to you," Thor said, inclining his head. "Good fortune."

Blaine's smile turned even more wistful. _I think we're past that point._

* * *

"Long story short," Quinn said, "Thor should be reconnecting with his real love right about now."

Tommy's lips pursed and he played with a pen on his desk, but said nothing.

"So... we can reach a happy medium that we're all, um, happy with. Right?" Quinn smiled brightly. "We're still really excited about the show, and we want to work. Just... we want to work in a way that makes sense for us. Which is only fair."

"Fine," Tommy said. "You don't have to date an Avenger. We'll talk about the rest of this after the holidays. Have a nice break."

Well, Quinn thought, and stood. That was so much easier than she'd expected.

* * *

Finn's new apartment was nice. It looked a little different than the one he'd shared with Kurt: the floor was a dark oak instead of that slick, shiny black, and the walls were sort of tan instead of so white that it hurt his eyes when the lights first came on. The layout was different, too. It only had one bedroom and no 'office.' It was sized for one person. There was no entry hall, either. The door opened straight into the living room.

"Why do you think they did that?" Emma Frost asked Finn as he walked in and looked around. S.H.I.E.L.D. had authorized her to come visit him directly, rather than having Finn drive out to visit her on a weekly basis. Most of his stuff had been moved there, three floors down and a few apartments over from his old home. The movers even knew which pictures he'd picked out, and which ones Kurt had... which ones Finn hadn't picked out. "Give you a home with so many changes?"

Finn shrugged.

"Think, Finn," Emma said with annoyance and unloaded the bag she'd brought over. Apparently, she didn't trust him to have food that she'd like. He hadn't gone shopping yet, so that was a fair concern. 

"I guess it was what was open," Finn said and sank down onto the couch. It was one of the few new items there. It was weird, seeing much of his old stuff in this new place. It reminded him of when the entire family had moved from Ohio to Long Island. Moving in with Burt and Kurt had been different, since they'd all bought so much new stuff together, then. Thinking back to those days hurt deep in his chest.

"Stop it," Emma said and tore free some grapes with irritation. "Focus on the question I asked you. Do you think they asked me to come here simply to keep you company?"

"No. Especially since I don't like you." Finn looked around the room again. He'd found out everything S.H.I.E.L.D. had done with placing him in Kurt's old place, from covering up how much they wanted him in that building to scanning him every day for dangerous power surges. And then, even without Kurt, he'd been given a new apartment all to himself, no rent required. _Everything you ever wanted_ , he thought darkly and slumped where he sat.

"Focus," Emma snapped. "And do you think I've been spending so much of my precious time with you simply because I like _you?_ Or because S.H.I.E.L.D. asked me nicely? The X-Men are not on their payroll, and we're not exactly friends with the government as a whole. Society treats mutants appallingly, Washington included, and yet here I am: honoring Nick Fury's request to keep you in line."

"I'm not that scary," Finn said and felt a little hurt. Why was she talking to him like he'd done something wrong?

"Yet. You could be. Everyone with dangerous powers either needs to be monitored or kept in line, and your powers, historically, have been among the worst to leave unattended. They didn't ever let you go back to your old apartment, did you realize that?"

Finn nodded. He'd wanted to get some things from it, though he'd spent the time leading up to the funeral at his parents' house. Instead, S.H.I.E.L.D. had asked him for an itemized list of what he wanted and it had been delivered to Long Island. He never had been allowed back inside after the night of seeing those pictures. Those _pictures._ His hands tightened around his thighs.

Emma put her hand on the remote control and Finn realized it was jerking. He relaxed and it stopped. "That's why you were kept out of there," she said and lifted her hand. "You brutalized that apartment. It's been under repair all this time. Nothing around you could be salvaged. You're sitting on a new couch, in front of a new television. They even had to replace all of the windows and they're enormously strong. They were designed to withstand direct ballistics assaults and you still cracked them in that telekinetic storm."

"Oh." Finn swallowed. "I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't. Because you completely zoned out when you were trapped in there with those pictures. Do you remember crumpling that table at your mother's work?"

Although it was difficult to recall, more of that night remained in Finn's mind than whatever had happened immediately after finding the photographs. "Yeah. I didn't mean to, but they were just arguing so loud, and I hurt so much...." He'd wanted them to stop arguing, he'd _needed_ them to stop, but somehow managed to keep enough control not to simply change their minds like he'd once slammed memory blocks on Kurt's. The psychic power had to go somewhere, though, and he'd torn up the room instead of them. "It hurt so much," he reiterated, softer. "I didn't know what to do."

Emma softened as well. "It is harder for those of us with powers based on our emotions, thought, or willpower. Others have to overcome the urge to punch something and keep their fists at their side. We either have to stop that urge from ever arising in the first place, or sharpen our minds enough that we can overcome that instinctive thrust of power."

"My mind's not very sharp," Finn mumbled. "People tell me that a lot."

She snorted. "I know. I still find it difficult to believe that you, of all people, wound up as a telepath when the Tesseract unlocked supposed potential. You certainly don't match the typical mold for powers like ours."

"You can leave any time you want, you know," Finn said and wondered what was on television. Maybe one of the old stop-motion animation specials would air that night. Thanksgiving had been unspeakably awful, beyond any hope of salvage, but maybe he could ramp himself up for Christmas. At the very least, he could spend that day not feeling like he wanted to throw up. That would be a huge improvement over Thanksgiving.

"I'm not leaving, because we've already missed two sessions. I do have sympathy for what you're going through; believe me, I've been in some very dark places. But that doesn't mean that you're not a threat or that you don't need to contain your powers. Your little displays recently have reiterated that fact."

"I wasn't trying to...."

"Which is the problem, yes. You need to learn to control yourself. You need to learn to shield yourself," Emma said, pouring herself a glass of wine. (White, of course. Finn figured that was in case she spilled some on her outfit.) He didn't like the stuff, so he hadn't touched it, even though alcohol sounded tempting. "Also, you need to stop flinching every time I say the word 'shield.'"

Finn flinched again. "Sorry." 

"You should also stop because your ribs are broken," Emma said, though Finn hardly needed the reminder. They were better than they'd been, but they still hurt.

"Thanks."

"I'm a giver," Emma said airily. "I already have a school full of students who need to benefit from my brilliant tutelage, but I agree with Nick Fury that you're too old and too far developed to be allowed to stay where you are. You _need_ to train your powers or your brother won't be the only person you know who winds up dead."

The remote flew off the table. Emma managed to snag it out of the air before it turned into a plastic missile and glared at him.

"I didn't mean to do that," Finn said, blinking at it. "I just... I thought of the pictures again, and you were a total bitch about—"

She slapped him. That time, it wasn't a telepathic strike. "If you use that word in my presence again, we'll have a real demonstration of our respective skills. I've been called a bitch more times than I can count, but by people who could back it up. You can't. One day, you will. Do you want to work toward that?"

His dark eyes met her pale ones, and both glared. Under hers, though, Emma smiled. "I will do whatever it takes to keep you from being a threat, Finn Hudson. If that means capitalizing on your sense of honor, fine. If I have to tap into your anger? That's equally good. The more you apply yourself, then the faster I'll be out of your life."

Finn rubbed where she'd slapped him. "Fine. Let's do this."

"Let's."

He had another migraine by the time she left. She'd pushed him harder than she ever had at the X-Men's mansion, because the only commute he had to make afterward was to shuffle from the living room into his bedroom. He fell into bed, not bothering to get under the covers despite the snow falling outside, and closed his eyes. 

His brain was lonely. None of his friends could understand that feeling. Even though Finn had mostly tried to stay out of Kurt's brain, it was still an _option_. Finn had gotten used to the feeling of his brother's mind coming within the range of awareness, checking to see if Kurt felt anything overwhelming, and quickly trying to block those feelings as much as he could. It had become an easy habit, like correcting for the too-tall step in the Long Island house. After moving away from home, Finn spent weeks nearly tripping on the fifth step leading down to their office because he'd corrected for it like his stairs at home. Habits were hard to break.

As he drifted toward sleep, Finn focused on that feeling of loneliness rather than the pain of Emma's studies. He would have focused on his migraine, if he could. It hurt less.

* * *

The question of who to send to see Doctor Strange had been easily resolved. A quick call to his manservant to set up a time had also turned up a key bit of information: dealing with magic was like manipulating any other kind of energy, and so the person to come should have some experience with that. That knocked Mike out of consideration. Among their friends, only Puck's powers were more purely physical.

Finn was out of the office, focusing on his psychic stuff so that he wouldn't accidentally blow up a room again if he lost control. The three of them had been _more_ than supportive of that plan. That left Mercedes and Tina. Mercedes manipulated her own energy, yes, but Tina could pull it from electrical wires or even other people, and in return she could send it back out in a multitude of forms. She did seem like the closest thing they had to magic, and so, as their workday ended, Tina put on a scarf, pulled on her boots, and slogged through the snow to go keep her appointment at the Sanctum Sanctorum.

(That servant hadn't thought it was funny at _all_ when she called it the Sanctum Santorum, even if it was a legitimate slip of her tongue.)

Upon arriving, Tina looked curiously at the building rising above her. The townhouse was probably worth ten million, easily. Save for its killer location and a few curious architectural decisions, it didn't look like a center of magical power. A pizza parlor sat across the street and she could hear passing NYU students fretting about finals. Though it was difficult to believe that it had anything powerful inside, she shrugged, climbed the stairs, and knocked.

The first peek through the open doors changed her mind in a second. The manservant invited her in, but she barely heard him. The scent of some strange incense had rolled into the winter air and she felt transported to Morocco, then India, then under the stars in the Nevada desert. The carpets in the hallway were woven with patterns that unsettled her to see, but the masks on the wall were worse. They moved when she looked at them but moved faster when she didn't.

"I'm here for the book," Tina croaked and compromised by looking at the masks sidelong.

"Follow me," he said and walked down the long hallway lined with those bizarre rugs. Tina tried not to step on any of the red and white lines that traced the worst of the designs. It felt like walking into an Escher painting, and, to make it worse, the masks on the wall were still moving. She dubbed the place the Sanctum Santorum again. It _deserved it._

"Wait here," the manservant told her when they reached a library at the far end of the hallway. They'd walked for longer than the house could possibly hold inside, but Tina tried not to think about what sort of architecture she'd walked into. Instead, she focused on the library itself and was pleased to see that it was far more normal than the entry hallway. It smelled of dust and old leather, and the only notable feature of the rugs under her feet was that they looked hundreds of years old.

One minute became two, then five, and Tina's courage grew as her attention wandered. She began nosing around the room. Books, artwork, strange objects: all of it looked fascinating. She soon discovered a stack of papers with a scratched heading of 'prophecies - translations/corrections?' It looked like the sort of messy notes she'd taken during school, with words crossed out and arrows moving things around, but would probably be far more interesting. She leaned in to read through the translations on the top sheet.

_A world born_  
Of blood and fire  
Body and soul 

_The dark temple_  
Holds a thousand screaming voices  
From a single throat  
Then, silence 

_The wolf devours the snake devours the lion devours the wolf_

_What a cheery place_ , Tina thought. Her nose wrinkled and she stepped back from the table. It was like the grimmest beat poetry house ever. The sound of footsteps at the door made her scurry back another few paces, so she wouldn't be seen nosing through Doctor Strange's work.

"Prophecies are always imprecise," Stephen said and she blushed and turned to greet him. He was tall, elegant, and dressed like an extremely dedicated participant at a Renaissance Faire. Grey streaked his dark hair, and a few lines of age scored his face, but he seemed far older than his appearance. "Some of these might come true in our lifetime. They all might apply to the same circumstances, or might refer to three different things entirely. Some may have played out a thousand years ago and no one recognized them for what they were."

_I hope I get home in time to watch The Voice_ , Tina thought as her brain slipped defiantly out of gear and clung to something not weighed down by this strange man and his thousand years of creepy history.

"I believe you came for this," he said, reached to a table near the door, and handed her a leather-wrapped book stamped with golden runes on its cover. "Don't be put off by the title. It's in English inside." As Tina flipped through and saw dozens of short chapters on dealing with restless spirits, Doctor Strange gestured to his full library. "I maintain one of the largest collections of occult books in the world. I believe you should be able to find what you need in that tome. If not, do let me know. Given my understanding of your powers, you should find the required manipulations to be trivial."

Worn, faded spines covered the wall and Tina became aware of just how many there were. She swallowed and turned a slow circle. The room's far corners were hidden in shadows. She didn't like the idea that _something_ could be lurking there; the rats and roaches around their office were bad enough. "This must be every magic book in the city." _I just walked into Rupert Giles' library. And we're not even on a Hellmouth._

Stephen chuckled. "Were that true. Powerful books have filtered into many other collections and I've lost track of some of the titles, sadly. If I had a free weekend, I'd love to step into the New York Public Library's reference room and see what they've managed to get their hands on."

Tina stepped closer to the shelves and began to read the spines. Many were in other languages, only some of which she recognized, but the English titles were enough to send her to shivering. This one was about Devourers of the Mind, that one discussed A Road Beyond Hell, a third covered Spiritual Torture. Though she was careful not to let her nerves show, Tina wondered to what kind of man she'd been delivered.

"Some of these," Doctor Strange said, like he could read her mind, "I keep only to be aware of my enemies' tactics."

Tina smiled nervously and stepped back. "Um. Well, thank you for the book." Her gaze kept snapping to a few weighty titles. He noticed and raised one sculpted eyebrow. "I... a friend of mine recently died."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Doctor Strange said, inclining his head.

"Thanks." Tina looked at the shelves, unable to form her next words. Réveil et Résurrection, promised one title. She didn't speak French, but she had a fair idea of what might be within those pages.

"I am the most powerful magician in this world," Doctor Strange said gently, and turned her from them, "and I avoid those spells. Little good comes of meddling in death. It deals in darker magics than I prefer."

"But heroes come back all the time," Tina said softly, aware of the book behind her. "How?"

"Sometimes via powers greater than a simple spell," Doctor Strange said. "Incredible science. Time travel. A fold in the universe. Forces that even I cannot comprehend. And sometimes, you must remember, they do not return." He saw her uncertainty. "Young lady, even if you were powerful enough to return this friend of yours to life, the chances are excellent that he would not return as you remember. You would only be setting him up to suffer, and yourself to mourn him for a second time. When released, souls want to move on. Holding them here is not a gift." He nodded to the book in her arms.

She nodded and clutched the book more tightly. Right, they were dealing with ghosts, the unquiet dead, and letting them move beyond that world. "He, um." Tina fidgeted. "You have a book about hell. About escaping hell, it looks like. Are they right, the people who talk about it?"

"Hells do exist, in countless forms."

"That's not what I...." Tina felt foolish, but more than that, she felt scared. "He was an atheist."

Doctor Strange smiled. "Many things matter in setting one's course: emotions at the time of death, the powers of one's enemy, whether you had any dark attentions upon you. A noble person who simply died is not destined for hell. They're demonic realms, not metaphysical judgment chambers."

Her entire body relaxed. "Really?" Tina asked. "For sure?"

His lips quirked further, a subtle gesture almost hidden by his mustache. "For sure."

Tina's fingertips pressed tightly against her book. "What's it like? The... non-hells?"

"There are as many options as there are shades of hell. I could locate your friend and tell you where he's gotten to, but trust me when I say that it would be a kindness to leave him undisturbed." He saw her about to ask more questions and continued in his same, gently measured tone, "I'll have my book back to me in three days, if you would. If you'll excuse me, now, I do have other business. My manservant will show you out."

Tina was lead through a maze of dark halls; the single, impossibly long hallway through which she'd entered had vanished. Incense still hung heavy around her. The door opened and she was nearly blinded; she had to throw an arm high against a harsh streetlight. In a few seconds it faded and she could make out strolling NYU students and the chipped sign of a pizza parlor. Someone walked by, texting on his iPhone, as the door closed behind her. Tina turned to look at it, and then wrapped her arms tightly around her gift and hurried for the subway station.

* * *

"No," Mercedes said the next day.

"I don't have that other book," Tina protested as she flipped through the pages instructing them how to clear out the ghosts from Mrs. Walker's mansion. "I just mentioned it. It was just... a thing I noticed."

"No," Mercedes said and slammed the drawer of her file cabinet. Mike and Tina exchanged a look, which only further raised her hackles. "Tina, you shouldn't even think that."

"I just—"

"You just nothing!" Mercedes said. Her palms landed against her desk with a sharp crack. "Kurt's dead, Tina. He is _dead_. You know this has wrecked me, because you've seen me cry for hours. But I know that when someone's dead, they're gone."

"But sometimes they're not," Tina said in a small voice.

"And that's wrong," Mercedes said.

She hated the idea that people were brought back to life. She'd mentioned it to Tina once, but she doubted the girl had taken her seriously. Resurrection was for her savior alone, not for even the world's greatest superheroes. It was noble, if tragic, to give one's life in the service of some greater good. But she'd always been unsettled when a hero popped back up after they'd made that sacrifice. The way to eternal life was through salvation, period, and real eternal life didn't mean coming back to your body when it had gone cold. When she saw those heroes walking around again... Mercedes wondered what was really powering their new lives.

Even if Mercedes didn't admit it out loud, it played into her wanting to stay off a team. It seemed like every last one of them had at least one member who'd defied how things should be.

Her eyes flicked to Finn's desk, still empty. The only way Mercedes had been able to rationalize what had happened to Finn was that his death had never really played out. Brittany hadn't reversed his death; she'd changed it so he'd never died at all. If he had, and if Brittany had brought him back to life, Mercedes didn't know how she'd feel about either one of them.

Sometimes she thought that their lives would be so much easier if they'd never gotten these stupid powers.

"We _are_ talking about dealing with ghosts for a contract," Mike pointed out and Mercedes snapped out of her silent stare.

"And?" Mercedes asked.

"It just seems a little weird for you to care so much about this and take that offer from Mrs. Walker," Mike said, although he had that worried look he often got when he was involved in a confrontation. "Just a little."

"We're helping them move on," Mercedes said. "That's normal. We're not calling the ghosts back. I feel sorry for them, I guess. That's all."

"Fair enough," Mike said, relieved that it hadn't turned into more of an argument. "So, um, does this case look doable?"

Tina nodded. "I'll have to take tons of notes before I need to give this book back, and it might actually take me a week or two of practice before I can pull this off. But it looks totally doable."

"Good," Mercedes said. "That's really good. We need to focus on this, get it taken care of, and then just... we need to keep moving."

"Moving on?" Mike asked softly.

She hesitated, but despite her guilt over trying to get used to a world that had Kurt so violently removed from it, Mercedes knew he was right. She could feel sad, but they couldn't put their lives on hold for Kurt, or anyone. They still had bills to pay and people to save, and the world hadn't stopped when he did. "Yeah."

* * *

The accommodations in Latveria were adequate. Not harsh, not luxurious: simply adequate. When Kurt woke, he felt no knots from an uncomfortable bed, but neither did it welcome him like his mattress at home at the end of a long day. If he wore all the pieces of the uniform Doom had provided, the temperature was just right; if he didn't, it was chilly. He was given exactly enough food to sate his hunger, but no more, and never had any choice in what was put in front of him.

It had only been three days since he'd woken, but he didn't see things changing any time soon.

He'd been in recovery alone. Kurt didn't like to think about what would happen as soon as he seemed ready for duty. Though he thought of his accommodations as a cell, he was in a normal bedroom in a high tower. The door wasn't barred, or even locked. His window swung freely open and the rough stones offered plenty of handholds. Even with the thick snow, it would be a simple matter for him to climb down, disappear into the village below that looked more like a medieval Hollywood set than anything in the modern age, and make his way to the nearest friendly face. There was a S.H.I.E.L.D. center in Germany. He could picture it on a map.

It did him no good, though, because he'd been told not to leave his room.

Kurt stood inside the threshold and pulled his door toward him, and watched miserably as it swung. The hallway beyond was empty of servants or guards. If not for the _things_ inside him keeping him under Doom's control, he'd have freed himself on the first day.

Though he knew it was futile, Kurt tried to move forward. His knee locked as soon as he reached the step that would take him outside. He pushed, like he'd discovered he could, and felt pain build. The harder he tried to move, the worse it got: stabbing between his eyes, a twisting in his chest like the warning of a heart attack, and hands trembling like he was being electrocuted. He gave up and stumbled backward, sweating, and knelt until the pain ebbed. It took a few minutes. No one walked by, because no one cared that he'd opened his door. Kurt slammed it shut.

His bathroom was adequate. Kurt had almost smashed the mirror on the second day, just so he could take out his fear and anger on _something_ , but checked his fist just in time. They hadn't given him any of the most frivolous of the toiletries he used on a daily basis: high-end lotions, hair products. Everything there was for maintenance, not preening. With that precedent, he doubted that they'd bother giving him a replacement mirror, and not even being able to see himself would be even worse. Kurt had heard everything they'd done to him, and that it would not be outside the realm of possibility for those nanobots to make _changes_. 

No obvious differences revealed themselves when he'd checked himself over, thank god, but that didn't mean that Doom hadn't already tweaked him just a bit to be more of a perfect soldier. Not knowing of any more shifts would be the worst, and so Kurt began to check himself obsessively to see if his jacket felt even the slightest bit tighter (more muscle mass?) or if the color of his eyes began to change (altered vision?). 

Still, he nearly lost his temper on that second day, and almost lost his mirror because of it. Protecting the mirror after that encounter was a simple enough thing, for Kurt had been given one other command that superseded all others: stay alive.

Throwing himself out of the window was impossible. He'd tried it once and his legs had locked up worse than when he'd tried to walk into the hallway. His hands knotted so tightly shut that he couldn't even undo the latch. So, when Kurt got it into his mind that he would use any shards of broken glass to slit his wrists, the mirror became untouchable.

He wondered how long it would be before someone came to talk to him.

Two more days passed and no one had.

Kurt stared at the open door again and gathered his courage. He wasn't certain, but upon thinking it over, he was fairly sure that he'd been able to take one step further on his last attempt than the first time he'd tried to leave. If so—if he was able to overcome the nanobots with a strong enough application of will—then he just had to keep trying. At the very least, if he could get closer to the hall, it would be an encouraging sign toward one day being able to throw himself from the window.

Tears streamed from his eyes by the time he gave up and let his cramping, knotted body fall away from the exit, but he was almost positive that he really had gotten further. Progress. Hope.

The next morning he woke up blind.

Kurt's hands knotted around the thin blanket and he tried not to hyperventilate. It was a near thing, especially when he heard footsteps approach. He couldn't see anything. He had no idea who was approaching him and he'd never studied fighting blind. _Stupid. Stupid!_

"You are stubborn," said Doctor Doom and Kurt went very still. "Doom has instructed the nanobots within your body to sever a few key nerves in your eyes. They can be repaired by the end of the day, but only if you cooperate. Doom treats his loyal soldiers fairly, and treats his honored soldiers in a manner befitting their accomplishments. Do you wish to be counted among their ranks?"

"You're in—" Kurt bit down on the word 'insane' before he finished and made another shaky attempt to control his breathing. Doom treated his soldiers fairly? Kurt was living proof of that complete, enormous _lie_ , but fortunately his fluttering nerves had interrupted his outrage. If he'd managed to insult Doom like he so desperately wanted, he probably could have looked forward to a week spent in the darkness as punishment. The thought of no mirror was bad enough. Picturing that week spent with severed optical nerves nearly had him crying. "I'll do whatever you want," Kurt said, broken. "Please, fix me."

"It is done," Doom said, although Kurt had to remind himself that it would take hours to repair. "If you are willing to cooperate, then we are ready to begin your training. Soon you will be an instrument of Doom's revenge upon anyone who would seek to deny his rightful spot as leader of this world."

"Of course, yes," Kurt said, nodding. He _had_ to see again, because not knowing how close Doom was to him had Kurt ready to scream. Though Kurt knew that other people weren't incapacitated by blindness, he was used to sight and was in the most dangerous place he'd ever been in his life. The helplessness was agonizing.

"Good," Doom said and Kurt could hear his footsteps departing. The door closed and Kurt was left alone. His vision returned in flashes over the course of the day. He wound up closing his eyes for most of the time, so that he wouldn't be left dizzy by parts of his vision exploding like fireworks in a night sky as the nerves reconnected. 

This was his new existence, Kurt thought miserably as he waited to fall asleep that night. Even the window seemed like an impossible dream, now. It would take longer to repair his body from a giant fall than from... he shivered at the vague memories of what Bullseye had done to him. It would take a long time to repair the damage from a fall, but it could still eventually happen, and then he'd be right back where he'd started. No, his only hope was that someone would find him and rescue him.

_That's doable_ , Kurt thought and his breathing steadied in the dark room. _S.H.I.E.L.D. will come for me if they know I'm alive. I just have to make sure that they do. I can do this. It won't be like Finn flying off on his own to get back Rachel. I'll have a whole squad after me. I'm a priority. I have to be a priority. They gave me that nice apartment, that means I'm a priority._

He had to start running missions for Doom, as publicly as possible. 

Okay.

He could do this.

Kurt held onto that certainty all through the next morning as he showered, dressed, and ate. Washing was surprisingly difficult; though his mind still slid away from the memories of Bulleye's attack, his hand shook as he brushed across the middle of his torso. _Cold steel biting through—_ Shaking his head, he forced back the thoughts. He had to avoid any reaction to what had happened in New Jersey, because that might keep him from looking combat-ready, which might increase the length of time before S.H.I.E.L.D. rescued him.

When he walked into a training room, those plans fled.

"You remember him, Doom sees," Doom said, having come to oversee the testing himself.

Kurt, swallowing, stared at Bullseye and said nothing. He hadn't known the man was still there.

"You," Bullseye said and pulled out something from the shadows at his side. "I'm going to make you pay for this, little agent."

Kurt swallowed again, but his gaze sharpened on his sword in Bullseye's hand. After a flash of fear, he felt only anger. He didn't have his clothes, or even control over his own body, but those swords were his and it infuriated to see them in someone else's hands.

"I've been awake for a bloody week," Bullseye said, "and my aim's off!" He shot a dark look at Doom. "I'm no one's slave. We'll see how long this lasts before I wriggle free. But in the meantime: death and destruction with all your toys to back me up?" He actually smirked at Doom, who didn't react. "Yeah, you thought I'd cower? Beg? Not likely. I'm not going to be your toy, and you'll regret that you ever tried, but I'll turn the Danube red in the meantime." He turned his attention back to Kurt and his eyes glittered. "But before that happens, you and me need to have a little talk."

"Those are mine," Kurt said in a low voice, too angry to be scared.

Bullseye jabbed the sword forward. "That hand's still healing up. You ruined it. Who knows if I'll ever get full feeling back?" He threw a tiny chunk of metal with his other hand—perhaps a screw—and it embedded itself in a far wall, but it was half an inch away from a seam between two panels. Kurt suspected he'd been trying to hit it precisely. "And _you_ did this. A disposable little agent like you, thinking that he can ruin—"

"You are disposable," Doom said. "He is not."

Bullseye ignored him. "—Ruin the deadliest weapon walking around this whole rotten—"

"Stop talking," Doom said and Bullseye did. His eyes went wide as his mouth slammed shut, and then he glared at Doom with the same fierceness he'd turned on Kurt. "You are disposable," Doom said again and walked toward him. "Had you been a more compliant soldier, Doom would have offered you a place of honor and a chance to redeem your mistakes. Instead, you have already proven to be more trouble than you are worth."

Bullseye twitched, but still, he smirked.

"Doom is curious as to what you will say," Doom admitted. "Speak again."

"You spent a lot of money bringing me back, I'll wager," Bullseye said. "Empty threats, all of this. You're not going to throw me away for no real reason."

"Brave words for a man who screamed for an hour upon his revival," Doom said. Bullseye snorted but didn't argue. Kurt was distantly thankful for the anger that still wrapped him, as it protected him from the shadowy memories of the time spent on that stone slab. He must have screamed, too. "Brave words," Doom repeated, "and correct ones."

Bullseye's smile grew.

"Doom will dispose of you for a very _valuable_ reason." As Bullseye's eyes widened and his smirk vanished, Doom nodded between the two men. "At the command: Bullseye, defend yourself but do not injure Agent Hummel in the slightest. Doom does not wish to waste any time on physical recovery. Agent Hummel, kill him and recover your weapons." Even behind his metal mask, Kurt somehow knew that Doom was smiling. "This will serve as proof that Doom's hawk will kill when loosed."

"This is bullshit," Bullseye said, but Kurt could see him rotate the swords. When he stopped, clearly horrified at what his body was doing, the sharp edges of the blades faced toward him, not Kurt. "This is... we had a deal!" he screamed at Doom, more pleading than outraged.

"Go," Doom said, nodding at Kurt. 

Kurt hesitated only a second, but that was enough to feel the pain of resistance start to build in his arms and legs. He wasn't trained in hand-to-hand like he was in blades and guns, and without a weapon he felt like he was moving at half speed. If Bullseye were really fighting, he'd win. Again.

But Bullseye was only playing defense, with worry written clear on his face, and the only thing he could do was delay the inevitable.

Kurt's foot snapped forward and caught Bullseye in the gut. Bullseye was already moving backward when the strike landed, and so it only glanced, but it was enough to prove that Doom's orders held true. Even if Bullseye wasn't an expert with the swords like Kurt, it would have been a simple move for almost any trained fighter to slice at his knee with the adamantium edge. Kurt had made such a slow, powerful strike for exactly that reason: either he would discover that Bullseye truly couldn't injure him, or he'd take himself out of the fight before he had to kill someone.

Even though Bullseye had killed him, Kurt realized that he didn't want to return the favor. His anger over his stolen swords, even over his slavery and _death_ , vanished in the face of the terror growing behind Bullseye's expression. Bullseye might be a hired assassin and an outright sadist, but even that was more honorable than entirely stripping away someone's chance to lift a hand in their own defense.

They settled into a steady pattern of punches. Kurt, his body feeling the limits of his hand-to-hand training, tried to knock the swords from Bullseye's grip. Bullseye, in return, brought up his wrists to block the blows but never turned the blades to bloody Kurt's arm. Eventually one of them would tire, but for now, Kurt saw with grim satisfaction, they were in a stalemate.

That stalemate ended when Doom casually tossed Kurt a small dagger no larger than a letter opener. Kurt snatched it from the air, spun like his muscles wanted, and gave up any hope of not killing the man in front of him. His dagger sliced open the back of Bullseye's hand and the man cursed. The next cut was deep enough to injure some nerves or tendons, and the sword fell to the ground. Kurt scooped it up in a single smooth motion and let his body keep attacking the man who'd killed him.

"This isn't fair, you know," Bullseye said as he tried desperately to block each strike of Kurt's sword. "You like to play fair, I can see it. I can't even fucking fight back, this isn't _fair_! You don't want to do this!"

"No," Kurt said, sliced Bullseye's arm to the bone with his dagger, and then slid his sword deeply into the man's torso when he stumbled. Kurt wasn't sure if he was crying or if blood had splattered. "I don't."

Bullseye looked at him with utter betrayal, as ridiculous as Kurt knew that was, and used his fading strength to spit. Kurt flinched, then wiped his cheek. Bullseye fell when Kurt pulled away his hand and lay on the floor, dying. _I must have looked like that_ , Kurt thought and felt his brain slip further out of gear. If not for how he needed to hold onto himself well enough to signal for a S.H.I.E.L.D. rescue, Kurt would have given up entirely and cowered in some distant corner of his mind. It wasn't like his body needed him to follow Doom's orders, after all.

"A more expensive lesson than intended," Doom said as he walked forward, "but illuminating. Retrieve your weapons. They are yours once more."

Kurt followed orders, numb.

"Doom believes you are ready to serve." Chuckling, he lifted a gauntleted fist and clenched it. "S.H.I.E.L.D. will learn the folly of ruining Doom's plans. Doom has other enemies, as well. Perhaps you will help gain revenge upon my oldest rival, or all my foes."

Kurt wondered what the punishment would be for throwing up on Doctor Doom's boots. Probably severe, and so he tried to swallow any bile creeping up.

"Doom does wish to see one more test before you are put into the line of worst fire," Doom mused. "Something to prove you are Doom's, unquestionably."

_Whatever it takes,_ Kurt thought, trying not to break down. Walking the line between controlling his emotions and not vanishing entirely inside his shell was a fine one, and he wondered how long he'd be able to manage it. "Yes. Of course. Sir."

"Good. Doom appreciates respect." He actually clasped Kurt's shoulder and Kurt had to make another effort not to be sick. "In this case, Doom wishes for you to prove your loyalty to him above anyone else." He walked directly in front of Kurt. "Look at your master."

Kurt did, of course.

"Say the name of someone you care about, and you will be given transport to kill them."


	12. Monster

Doom's words hung heavy, but Kurt was calm. There was only one answer he could and should give, and he said it without hesitation: "Nick Fury."

For a long beat Doom said nothing. Maintaining his expression became a challenge. There were no weaknesses and countless positives in that answer, Kurt thought. Scarcely anyone on the planet had better protection, and there was no chance that he'd make it even halfway to Fury without being discovered. If S.H.I.E.L.D. managed to subdue or kill him immediately, then that was fine. (Once Kurt was back in safe hands, of course, he hoped that 'subdue' would win the day.) If Kurt somehow managed to slip through, then he'd be facing someone who could defend himself.

More than that, Nick Fury was exactly the target Doom wanted. Vague, disquieting memories of Kurt's death floated up and reminded him that all of this came down to that United Nations mission. Fury had signed off on that order, Fury had started it in the first place, and so it must be Fury on whom Doom ultimately wanted to earn revenge. It was tempting bait, and Kurt had absolutely known that Doom would take it without a thought for the hooks waiting to snag Kurt to safety.

Instead, though, he only looked at Kurt.

Kurt swallowed.

"You wish to kill Nick Fury."

"It was his plans that landed me here." Faced with the overwhelming sheer _presence_ of Doom, Kurt felt his heart speed. He was locked in a cage with a rabid bear. "He obviously didn't care about me. Maybe you'll be a better boss," Kurt added and giggled nervously despite himself. He tried to swallow the sound, and then resigned himself to sounding like a child who had no real hopes of facing down the head of S.H.I.E.L.D. Still, Doom had just watched him kill one of the world's best assassins....

_Because Bullseye couldn't fight back, idiot. You've gotten shoved out onstage on opening night and you don't even know the words. You are in over your head worse than James Franco hosting the Oscars._

"You wish to launch a deadly assault on Nick Fury's helicarrier, penetrate the hallways filled with some of the best agents S.H.I.E.L.D. has to offer, and execute Fury himself."

"I sure do." At least he didn't giggle again.

Again, Doom said nothing. Finally he asked, "Are you aware of what those nanobots can do to you?"

"Bad things," Kurt guessed. He'd screwed up. He didn't know exactly how, but clearly, he had.

"Doom applauds your fervor in striking back against the allegiances you once held. Were you to be taken by S.H.I.E.L.D., Doom may choose how to control your body in the next seconds." Doom took a step forward. Kurt forced himself to stay where he stood. "Had you fought bravely, Doom would give you a death cleaner than any cyanide tablet. Instant, painless." Another step forward broke Kurt's courage and he moved away when Doom advanced. "If Doom believes you to have performed poorly, there will be no death. But there will be pain. The nanobots are countless millions within you. Even if you were under a surgeon's knife, too many would remain in your body to ever free you from Doom's control... or whatever agony Doom deems appropriate for a servant whom he feels has performed inadequately.

"Now," Doom said, quieter and terrifying, "do you believe that you can perform the task you have chosen... adequately?"

"I don't...." Kurt trailed off, and for one sharp second he wanted his father so much that it hurt. He'd never felt more alone, hopeless, or scared, but of course having Burt there would be the worst thing in the world. Kurt was a weapon, now, and anyone vulnerable he approached would die. 

But he was an _unprepared_ weapon, and that had never been more obvious than right now with Doom waiting for his answer. Kurt hadn't trained in unsighted combat, he had barely trained in hand-to-hand, he'd ruined the White House mission with his bright ideas. He'd even nearly wrecked himself in an intersection getting to Finn because he could barely control the motorcycle they had him on. He was young, green, and a million miles out of his league.

_Don't swing for the fences_ , Kurt heard in Finn's voice, now that he'd thought of him. He could see Finn slouched on the couch, having taken it over for yet another stupid baseball game. Kurt had always disliked baseball's dull pace and saggy-bottomed uniforms, but with Finn forcing it on him for months at a time he'd grown to outright loathe the sport. Even now, the terminology wouldn't leave his head. _Bunt._

Kurt had to give him a name that could really die.

He had to accept that death, give Doom the kill that he wanted, and just hope that someone would stop Kurt before it happened. Or, more likely, hope that someone would see him so that S.H.I.E.L.D. could be notified afterward. For that to happen, he had to go somewhere where he'd be seen. Somewhere well away from Nick Fury's helicarrier as it patrolled a slow pace around Manhattan, so that Doom would forget Kurt's first, terrible suggestion, but still: a place where he'd be seen. "I have another name," Kurt said. "I can tell that I'm still used to... to waking up, and maybe I shouldn't overextend myself."

Doom said nothing and Kurt could see his cold eyes behind his mask. If he did not like the answer Kurt gave, Kurt knew things would get very painful, very quickly. When Kurt said the name of his target, Doom thought it over and said, "This name means nothing." That sounded like a good thing for both of them: Doom didn't think that Kurt was trying to send up a signal flare and Kurt didn't worry that something had immediately displeased him.

"He means something to me." Kurt closed his eyes, thought a short plea for forgiveness, and pictured all the people swarming those buildings. He could make his assault at 3 AM and people would still be up, working and watching. But it wasn't a military stronghold like the helicarrier. Doom wouldn't suspect.

"Love?"

"Loved."

"Good." Kurt tensed, expecting Doom to follow it up with some macabre request for his heart, but Doom only added, "Be quick about it. After this show of loyalty, your real work begins."

Kurt bowed. He guessed that Doom liked bowing, what with the castle and the ridiculous title, and he seemed to be right. _I'm blind again, trying to figure out what to do next. But at least I can feel my way through._

Thinking about that kept him from thinking about what he was about to do.

* * *

"I want red," Puck said.

"Red? Why red?" Rachel asked as some woman took Puck's measurements. He hated it. This reminded him of being fitted for his old, salvaged-leather outfit for the Awesomes, and that just made it obvious who _wasn't_ there to make him a new costume. Sure, those old things hadn't been at the level of the outfits of New York's elite superheroes, but Kurt had made them with his own hands. (And Tina's, Mercedes', and Quinn's.) They were _them,_ in all their in-jokes and friendships and everything. This new costume felt like getting a generic department store gift for Christmas when he'd rather have something handmade.

"I like red. I'm used to wearing red for a football uniform. I dunno. It just came to mind first."

Rachel smiled apologetically. "Well... red is actually the one color that you're not allowed to use. At least for your main one."

Puck snorted in irritation as he lifted his arms and let the woman measure around his bicep. When told, he flexed. She jotted down a second measurement. "Who said that?"

"Um. Tony. He said that he's claimed red. But you know, there are lots of other colors...."

"Then blue. Whatever."

"That's technically fine, but the Captain America uniform _does_ have an awful lot of blue in it and your powers are awfully similar, you know...."

Puck stared flatly at Rachel. She'd dragged him into her plans for applied superheroics to serve as a distraction from his grief. Apparently, Rachel's definition of 'distraction' was 'annoy a person until he can't think about anything else.' "Black. I don't give a shit. What? Why are you making that face?"

"The Black Widow, Hawkeye, Thor, Ms. Marvel... they all have a lot of black in their costumes, is all!" Rachel said and held up her hands. "You don't have to avoid black, but you probably just shouldn't have too _much_...."

"Blue and white," Puck suggested, not really meaning it, "with a giant Star of David on my chest."

"Noah."

"Hey, I'm serious. Shalom," he added and smiled defiantly.

"Quinn can wear a white costume because Quinn fights at a distance," Rachel said. She pulled out a tablet computer and began flipping through famous costumes, turning it around to him at each step. "But see, melee fighters like you know better than to wear something that shows so much dirt. Doesn't that make sense?"

"Fine. Brown."

"Noah, I absolutely refuse to let you go out on the streets of New York in a _brown_ costume." He could feel the standoff building toward something they would regret, fueled by something far deeper than clothes. Puck welcomed it, expecting Rachel to lecture about how she knew best and always _would_ know best. Instead she hesitated, swallowed her words, and smiled. "What about a black majority for the body, but with orange trim?"

"Orange?" Puck asked. He didn't know if he liked orange. The only orange superhero he could think of was that big pile of rocks on the Fantastic Four.

"It's not a color that's used often, but it's like a 'men at work' sign. You know, a warning sign! Telling you to pay attention and get out of the way." She flipped her hair in visible irritation. "Orange isn't taken. It would look nice with your skin tone. You don't have to use orange, it was just a suggestion. Please just pick a color."

"Fine. Orange. But I want black for most of it!" he shouted after the woman when she finished jotting down notes, took a few last snapshots of him, and walked out. The Avengers apparently had connections with a real designer who was more than happy to serve as their very own Edna Mode. That didn't surprise him. The Avengers had connections with everyone. They could probably get Hollywood A-listers dropped off on their front steps if they could convince S.H.I.E.L.D. that Brad and Angelina were sufficiently related to national security.

"Now that it's just the two of us," Rachel said as she hopped up on a counter and swung her legs under her, "I'm so glad that you agreed to my idea."

He shrugged. "Nothing better to do."

"Yes," Rachel agreed, and her big doe eyes were sad. "You told me as much."

Puck looked down.

"If you'd rather do this full-time, there's plenty of room. If you want to keep your job and just want to do this on the weekends or evenings, that's fine, too. Just so long as you're _here_ , talking to people." She grabbed a hank of hair and ran her hands down it. "How are you doing?"

"Better than I was, I guess. I want to hit something."

"Well then, it's good that you're working with us. I'm sure it will be very beneficial."

"Yeah." His arms wrapped around himself, and Puck found himself wishing that he could fold in on himself as small as Rachel could manage. "I just... he was it."

"I know you don't want to think about this right now," Rachel said, in the same tone she'd used for telling him that applying himself to Avengers work would be beneficial, "but someday you'll find someone else. I promise."

"That's not the point!" he said. "And it would never be like...." Words failed him. Puck knew that he could be in love, and that he could feel like he had something to contribute to another person besides his dick. 

Finally, he continued. "You know when the first time was that I ever really stood up for someone else? For Kurt, to his old dad. That was the _first time_ I ever felt like I could really be there for someone when they needed me. Like I could fix something and not have it blow up in my face." Memories of life on the road flashed like a slideshow, and the words began to come fast and as hot as a dusty Texas summer. "When I was wandering around, trying to help people again... I told myself I wasn't hoping, but I was. He wasn't perfect, and I knew that in my head, but my stupid fucking heart never saw that. Every single thing I was doing was trying to be good enough again. For him."

"Noah, that's not healthy," Rachel said, although she was gentle about contradicting him. "You need to improve yourself for your own sake. He was never your reward."

His reward? What, like some _thing_ to throw around? The phrasing raised Puck's hackles. "I know that! I never thought I could _win_ him, and stop with the fucking lectures!" His nostrils flared. "Do you care that Kurt's dead?"

Rachel drew back, her shock writ large. "What?"

"You're like the biggest drama freak that I've ever met in my life, but I don't think I've seen you cry once over him." Puck felt his throat close tight. Sometimes he'd think that he was all cried out, but his emotions were weeds that kept stubbornly sprouting. "Seriously, do you care? At all, that someone killed him, do you care?"

"I could slap you for that, Noah Puckerman," Rachel said, shaking.

"Do it," he dared her. "You can't hurt me, and then you'd actually be acting like you gave a shit that—" His vision exploded red and the impact lingered for longer than he'd expected. Rachel was stronger than she looked, he thought as he rubbed his cheek. He doubted he'd bruise—it took a hell of a lot to make him bruise—but it was still a surprise.

"I _can't_ show how much I'm hurting!" she said. "Because I have to be the leader. That's my job, that's what I have to learn how to do. I'm supposed to be great." Great: Rachel said the word with the certainty that she'd once used when promising that she'd try to remember their names when she had three magazine covers in the same month. For one sharp, burning second Puck hated her.

But she continued, agonized, and that hatred fell away. "Well, this is the path I've chosen, Noah, and so I have to be perfect at it. I have to be there for other people." Her throat sounded like it had closed tight, too. "I have looked up every name of every person that died in Lima. I still feel like it's my fault that Shelby found us to begin with and I know it's my fault that she tracked us down again. And now, probably the closest friend I've ever had in my life has been murdered and I have to be there for his brother, because it's even harder for him. I have to be there for his parents, because it's even harder for them. And I have to be there for you, because I know it's harder for you, too." Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Well, this is hard for me, and no one seems to care."

Wordlessly, Puck held out his arms. She collapsed into them and he embraced her as she sobbed, in the ugly, snotty way that a person could only do when they didn't care how they looked. Rachel cried for a long time, with what felt like the pent-up energy of a week, or even a month. "I'm sorry," she said. Puck's sweatshirt had a huge damp spot. He'd have to steal one from the Avengers' closet before he left. "I don't think I've cried since his funeral. I've just tried to focus on what I had to do."

"I didn't see you," Puck said, a little heartsick over the words he'd lobbed at her. Kurt's funeral had been one of the biggest gutpunches of his life, and carrying that empty casket still haunted restless nights. He'd probably just missed the sight of Rachel crying.

"I made sure I only did it where no one would see, so people wouldn't feel worse." Rachel shamelessly wiped her nose against his chest. "It was hard."

"You don't have to pretend not to feel things to make people feel better, okay?" Puck said. "Because you're Rachel Berry and you do everything cranked up to eleven. If you're sad, you sing Killing Me Softly in the rain while making crazy muppet faces. So if you don't, it just looks like...."

"Like I don't care," she finished. "I suppose I... I should have relied on my friends."

"Yeah. If you get to yell at me about ignoring people, I get to yell at you. We've fallen apart and it sucks, we need to stop doing it, and that goes for everyone." She nodded and pulled away in search of kleenex instead of his sodden shirt. "You hit freaking hard for those puny little arms," Puck added and rubbed his cheek. "I know Finn's bitched about Emma smacking him around, but he doesn't have stud powers like me."

"I'm sorry," Rachel said. "You did tell me to slap you."

"Yeah, I won't do that again." They stood in silence for a beat, with him stripping down to his t-shirt and her cleaning the aftereffects of her crying jag. "This is hard," Puck said. "I want my old costume. It was black, too." The one Kurt had made was gone. Puck had no idea what had happened to his belongings when he'd left to travel the country, and he'd packed only those clothes that were easy to wash whenever he found a laundomat. 

"I could call her, you know," Rachel said, apparently picking up on the memories running through his head and heart. "Tell her to make sure to give you short sleeves."

That put a wistful smile on his face. "Sleeveless," Puck said. He couldn't remember the exact wording Kurt had used, but he knew that it was the leather vest look to which Kurt objected. If he wasn't wearing black leather, then Kurt would think it was fine to show off his arms. "Yeah. I want sleeveless."

"All right. But either way, I should note that it's winter," Rachel pointed out and nodded to the grey city outside her window.

"I'm tough."

"I know." Rachel stepped forward and squeezed his hand. Just for a second she was his girlfriend again, he was her first boyfriend, and they had no idea of the ridiculous turns their lives would take. "We'll help each other remember that we don't have to be, though."

* * *

The campus buildings were speckled with light even at that late hour. Kurt watched from a rooftop across the street, pressed low and flat with binoculars to his eyes.

It was a 'S.H.I.E.L.D. base' only in name. In reality, the facility was a research center: a collaboration between the U.S. government and local industry. Contractors willing to go through the lengthy vetting process had access to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s information and were considered far more readily for contracts. With S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top-end security also serving as a gatekeeper to other, larger branches of the military, the process was enormously lucrative. They had full research campuses in Chennai, San Jose, Arlington, and Wiesbaden, along with this one: on the outskirts of Nagoya, Japan.

After being dropped off more than a mile away, Kurt had made his quiet way through the city. He didn't know Japanese—another mistake on his part, it seemed like an important language to know—and had to keep checking his communicator for directions. He blended in with the locals, thanks to his illusions; at least, so long as no one looked at him through anything electronic. With that in mind, he kept moving so that no one would capture him with their phone's camera. Everyone seemed to have one handy. 

When he'd approached the base, he'd taken one foolish step directly toward the entrance, planning to run up to the guards and plead his case. (Hopefully they'd speak English.) After that one step, his legs locked up again. He'd been told above all else to stay alive, and also to perform Doom's tasks to completion. That bright idea probably violated both of those commands.

So instead, there he was: on a rooftop in the snow, getting colder by the second. The binoculars felt like they might stick to his face. _I need to make my move_ , Kurt decided, although he hated what was about to happen. _If I start freezing, I might have to move no matter what._ If he was suddenly on a timer to avoid a death by hypothermia, then he'd have to strike hard and fast. There would go all his plans to be seen.

_Of course_ , Kurt thought as he pulled himself up a tree left growing too close to the facility fence, _for all I know, the bots wouldn't let me freeze._ Wistfully, Kurt wondered whether there was anything that could actually get them out of him. It was hard to think of any plausible option. He'd been told many details about the nanobots, mostly to impress upon him how futile it was to hope. Now that he was awake—nice euphemism—they were fueled by the electrical energy of his own cells. With that provided for them, generating more units was quick and simple. Disabling only a few was pointless, because they'd breed like bacteria to fill that void. Disabling them by force, all at once, would probably kill him again. 

He'd let his mind go too far down that path, Kurt knew as he clung to a branch and didn't move. Memories of what had happened before he _woke up_ lingered like nightmares: not perfectly recalled, but terrifying all the same. "When I get out of this," Kurt whispered to himself, not caring that Doom might be listening, "I'm probably going to need therapy." Then, with one mighty effort, he shoved that fear deep down inside him and used the branch to swing above and inside the fence.

_Like when I got down off the roof, on the night I discovered my powers again._

Kurt shoved that memory down, too.

Making this choice was difficult, but the most logical one available to him. Agent Jack Kefner was trained in self-defense, which was more than many people in his life could say. Jack was surrounded by S.H.I.E.L.D. defenses, if only at the level for a civilian-filled base, and his death—if it came to that—would be thoroughly investigated. Kurt wasn't positive that he'd win, but if he didn't, he'd still put up a good enough fight against security that Doom would hopefully just turn him off instead of sending him straight to nanobots-on-nerves hell.

Everything went blurry and for a second he was terrified that Doom was taking his vision again. Then he felt the cold wetness on his cheeks and angrily wiped away his tears before climbing to a rooftop for observation.

He'd fallen in love with Puck at fifteen and their entire lives had been stolen and warped. He'd fallen in love with Blaine and Blaine had to step back, crying, so that he didn't end up six feet under. And then he'd fallen in love with Jack and maybe it wasn't as all-consuming, but it was real and comfortable and reassuring. The relationship didn't destroy him when it ended, and their time together told Kurt that he wasn't doomed to be alone forever or to endanger anyone who touched him.

Ironic.

_Poor Jack_ , Kurt thought on endless repeat. Burt and Finn had both clearly wondered why Agent Kefner was dating someone ten years his junior, even if Finn was otherwise nice to him, but he'd shrugged off any insults and pretended not to notice. Jack treated Kurt like an adult, and even more than starting a real job with a real salary, that made Kurt feel like he'd finally left behind all the ridiculous drama and the failed... _many_ things of his childhood. They went to nice restaurants, they talked about their careers, they walked in Central Park and Jack sketched him in a hundred different lights. 

Maybe this could still work. Maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. security could just subdue Kurt, and... and _somehow_ Doom wouldn't kill him immediately afterward, and it would all work out, it just would. Jack was the guy who'd proven that Kurt wasn't a death sentence, right? He had. He _had._ This had to work.

Kurt saw a shock of blond hair walking out of what looked like an industrial design facility, talking with three colleagues shorter and darker. There might be other tall, blond employees stationed in Nagoya, but he remembered that sweeping gesture of Jack's arm when he held the door open. Kurt's heart sped. All right, he just needed to be seen by someone who might be able to bring him down, alert Jack and have him pull his weapon, and—

As he hesitated, Kurt's hands moved on their own volition. Horrified, he could do nothing as he drew his gun, aimed, and put a bullet through Jack's throat. 

_No. No, no, no._

Another bullet caught Jack in his chest as he staggered against the building and fell. The spray of red behind him screamed accusation.

_I bought him roses for Valentine's. He'd never gotten flowers. He loved them._

By the time the blood dripped down the wall and hit the floor below, alarms were blaring across the campus and Kurt was back in motion. He cried as he vaulted back over the fence and made his invisible way back toward his transport, but that didn't slow his progress.

Nothing he could do would help.

And everyone was going to die.

* * *

"I don't like this," Mike decided as he looked around the Walker estate.

"What don't you like most," Finn began, gesturing around them, "the broken furniture or bloody walls?"

"I think I've gotta go with the blood." It wasn't cold enough to see their breath, but was near to it. Granted, Agatha had lived alone for years with only servants to help her, and she probably hadn't bothered keeping the unused areas of the house fully heated. That would be a perfectly normal, boring explanation for why it was so cold in there.

Mike would find that perfectly normal, boring explanation easier to swallow if not for the still-visible russet stains on the wallpaper. The servants had washed away the bloody words, but not before they'd left their marks. Though it was obvious that they didn't want to tell their personal ghostbusters everything that had happened, it really couldn't be helped. The letters were still legible.

LEAVE was a popular word. So were NOW, GO, and DEAD. Short, succinct, and terrifying: these ghosts had done their homework. Mike really, really hoped that the walls wouldn't start weeping blood again before they could finish the job. 

"But that's actually not what I meant," Mike corrected as he finished looking around the room and returned his attention to Finn. "I just feel super useless right now. Why am I here?" He gestured toward where Mercedes was talking to Agatha; after she'd handled the financials for which she'd studied, she'd return to help Tina with the energy manipulation. Tina was already busy putting two weeks of magic practice to good use, and her powers translated nicely into the spells she'd gotten from Doctor Strange. Finn was able to sense the ghosts faintly with his telepathy, like he was catching them out of the corner of his eye, and he'd serve as their alert for when Tina and Mercedes should be ready to pull the trigger.

And then there was Mike Chang with absolutely no mystical relevance to his powers whatsoever. Even his flying felt athletic; Brittany had once told him that her flight felt like she was dreaming and weightless, but his just felt like he was doing the world's longest, most flawless jump in the middle of a dance. 

Finn smiled in easy reassurance, opened his mouth, and hesitated. He turned to Tina, including Mercedes as she returned. "Why is Mike here?" Both girls frowned at the question and the boys shrugged. "I mean, he's kind of useless right now."

"Thanks." Mike nodded once, slowly.

" _You_ said you were useless, dude," Finn pointed out. "We're just wondering why he's not manning the office or something while the three of us take care of this."

"Because," Tina said, and stood where she'd been kneeling, "I've never done anything like this before. It's going to be tricky and I'm a little intimidated. So I want my sweet, supportive boyfriend here so I know that I'll be okay."

"He's just moral support?" Finn asked, like there was something wrong with that. "He's not actually doing anything? That's your plan?"

"Hey, that's cool," Mike said. He'd seen how hard Tina had worked over the past weeks; too hard, truth be told, because doing something productive let her focus on anything besides her grief. He always wanted her to be happy, even when times were hard, so the distraction was welcomed. "Should I go find a cheerleading costume?" he added and grinned when he earned the smile he'd been hoping for.

"You two are disgustingly functional," Mercedes said. "Finn, don't you just want to kind of smack them around a little? I can take Tina, you grab Mike."

Finn blinked guilelessly back at her. "Why? Me and Rachel are disgustingly functional, too." Everyone was quiet for a beat and Tina bit her lip. "What?"

"So, hey!" Mike said, too loud. "We're that perfect couple that everyone hates!"

"Yay us!" Tina said and pulled him in for a long, sweet kiss. She was wearing her watermelon lip gloss, Mike noted happily. She'd mentioned liking it once and he'd bought it for her every birthday since. In the senior year that they spent apart, he sent three by mail.

"Do you hate me and Rachel?" Finn asked Mercedes.

"Only when I have to deal with the fallout," she said and busied herself with the notes for what they faced next. Finn frowned.

Tina had mapped out each step they needed to take. It was just this side of obsessive, but given the new magical ground on which they were treading, no one questioned that. They were all given their assignments and got to work on those last bits of preparation. "I can't believe you're okay with this," Mike said to Mercedes as they, frowning, figured out how to use a compass to map the northernmost point in the room. "Magic, I mean."

"There was a lot of weird stuff in that book," Mercedes said, not bothering to hide her distaste. "And Tina mentioned a lot of other books that were creepier than this one. Summons and dark arts and all kings of things. But I read through everything for this 'spell,' and it's actually just energy running through the house. People got trapped here and so we have to find the roadblock and pull it out." She glanced at the stained walls as Mike, proud, found north and marked it. "I don't think they were trying to get Mrs. Walker to leave. I think they were screaming for help."

Mike, considering that, read the words again. If 'dead' wasn't a threat, he allowed, then everything could be read as spirits pleading for release after their passing. "So, you think they're saying 'we're dead, we should be allowed to move on? Anybody out there, hello?'"

"Finn says that they don't feel angry. I guess that's something."

"How not-angry can you be," Mike wondered, "and still manage to get blood oozing out of the walls?"

Mercedes looked at the stains again. She probably hadn't wanted to consider that. "We've got some people being held here when they shouldn't be," she said and closed her notes. "Let's help them move on, find their peace, and cut out the creepy stuff bugging Mrs. Walker. That's all we're doing: opening the door so that they can go home. They'll be grateful for that, right?"

"Sure, totally," Mike said. Tina had mentioned her talk with Dr. Strange, and that the afterlife was apparently far more complex than most people ever pictured, but he didn't raise the point. "Let's do this, said the cheerleader who'll just offer moral support."

"You're totally the best at doing lunch runs," Mercedes said as they gathered at the center of the room.

"You're the only one of us who'll go to more than one restaurant," Finn said, jumping in.

"And you are wonderful at finding evidence and stopping guys from running when we need to talk to them," Tina added with a dark look for the others. "Which is important, and matters."

Mike grinned. He didn't really feel hurt by his uselessness in that day's work, but he did love watching Tina stick up for him. "Okay. I'm shutting up now so that you can focus."

Nodding, Tina closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and began murmuring soft words in an unknown tongue. Nothing seemed to change; the hair on Mike's arms didn't prickle, the lights didn't dim. He suspected it was a way to center herself for whatever would come next. Next to her, Finn looked around the room with unfocused eyes, open to the sensation of any approaching ghosts. Mercedes watched him attentively. 

"One's coming," Finn said.

A faint blue glimmer popped up to fill the doorway, like a force field on Star Trek. Mike raised an eyebrow, a little impressed. He hadn't known she could get her shields big enough to block off an entire room.

"It should be one-way," Mercedes said. "They can come in, but they can't go out." She didn't sound certain, and why should she be? They had no reason to think that ghosts could actually be stopped by her shields, but maybe they'd make the spirits think twice about leaving before their path was cleared.

_Oh, good,_ Mike thought as Tina's voice dropped and quieted; now, there was no question that she was doing real magic. _Mercedes has us locked in the room with the blood-writing ghosts. Maybe I can run really fast or punch the air if they try anything. That'll help._ A soft sigh at his shoulder nearly made him jump out of his skin. They were there and they were invisible, and he was creeped out. Even if he could punch a ghost, how was he supposed to see where to aim?

"Leave," Finn said. When all three of them looked at him, wide-eyed, he shook his head once. _Not possessed, just making things easier._ "Help us leave."

"I knew they just wanted to move on," Mercedes said with satisfaction. "Who'd want to stick around this crummy place when you have the whole afterlife waiting for you?"

"Then what was with the blood?" Mike couldn't help but ask. "If you weren't trying to hurt anyone?"

"Just trying to get her attention." Finn paused, listening to whoever was speaking into his head, and snorted. "Mrs. Walker figured she'd die before she had to deal with the ghosts, but eventually she got sick of it. I guess they caused enough trouble that she finally listened to them. It sounds like they were complaining ever since she moved in."

Mike wondered if 'the squeaky wheel gets the grease' was hidden in the Bible somewhere. Maybe in Proverbs.

For a spell manipulating the energy separating this world and the next, everything was surprisingly low-key. Their ghosts weren't fighting the process and so nothing was torn off the walls. No voices screamed in their ears and Mike never feared for his life. Despite her unfamiliarity with magic, Tina seemed in total control of everything going on. She'd seldom looked more confident, and Mike had never felt more proud than when brilliant golden light exploded around them and he knew that the wayward spirits had been allowed to rest.

"Thanks," Finn said as he stared at the ceiling, where the last glimmers of light were fading. "They said thanks." He swallowed. "Before they totally stepped out of, um, here, they could tell that the next place looked really nice." He swallowed. "That's good to know, I guess."

Mercedes held his hand and squeezed it, hard, and for a while no one said anything more. They only stared at where the light had been, not sure whether to smile or cry.

"I want a distraction," Tina decided and the moment broke. "That went well, but the spells are all I've been thinking about for two weeks, and now this is over. I know we're all meeting for dinner this weekend—"

"Not all of us," Finn said and their good mood deflated further.

She looked down. "Yeah. I know. That's why I want a distraction until then. Sorry if it sounds awful, but I just can't think about this—about him—24/7. Doing the spell really helped me. I need to focus on other stuff. I'm sorry, Finn, I know this is probably the hardest for you, but...."

"No, I get it," Finn said. "It's okay. I mean, my parents are dead, right? All of our parents are. And we got over that, so we're allowed to get over this." His smile was a little too tight, though, and Mike saw hurt behind his eyes.

"You can tell we haven't forgotten, right?" Mike asked quietly. He tapped the side of his head.

"Yeah. I know. It's just... I'm really glad that I can know what people are feeling. Because everyone acts differently, and they move at different speeds, and sometimes it seems like people don't care if they don't react to something in the same way you do." Finn blew out a long breath, like saying so many words all strung together had drained him. "And I remember Christmas mornings and Coney Island and stupid arguments that you never saw, before you even knew us. So if I thought people just didn't care... anyway, I know that you do care. Besides, I'm trying to control my emotions more so that I don't blow up any more rooms."

"Always a good thing," Mike said.

"Yeah. I already did two on accident." Finn shrugged as they walked toward the door. "Oops. Emma is really pushing my emotions to see if I can shield my reactions, so that doesn't happen again. She's trying to hurt my brain to check if I can shield attacks coming in, too. And blocking memories to make me find them, so I can recognize when they've been shielded."

"Sounds like a lot of shields," Mercedes said.

"Yeah." Finn scratched the side of his head. "I know she's hidden a bunch of memories from me right now."

"What are they?" Tina asked.

"I don't know. That's kind of the point. I'm supposed to be able to see the blocked part of my brain when I don't even know that I should be looking for it, and when I peel back the shield then I'll remember what she hid. I thought it sounded like a fun game but it's actually really annoying."

"Well," Mike said, "the worse you do with your training, the more time you get to spend with Emma Frost. What?" he added when Mercedes raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly between him and Tina. "She's really pretty."

"He's right, she's smoking hot," Tina said, shameless.

"She's too annoying to be hot," Finn muttered. "And she keeps slapping me."

"Hot," Tina said.

"Shut up."

Mike smirked at Tina, who smiled back. He caught on to her plan then: bug Finn, poke him, do anything but let him wallow. Another twitch of her eyebrow said they'd have to trade off on distraction duties that week until everyone got together on Saturday night. One last quirky smile, then her eyes raking up and down his body, told Mike that Tina was planning one of her favorite long evenings: sucking him off as he slouched languidly over the edge of the couch, riding his face as Mike ate her out during his fuzzy, post-orgasmic high, and taking him inside her once he rose a second time. That was pretty much Mike's favorite evening, too, except that he liked reverse cowgirl better than normal. Tina had a great ass.

"Mercedes?" Mike asked, not looking away from his girlfriend. "How about you take Finn to the movies or something tonight?"

"Uh, okay?" Mercedes caught on a second later, took Finn's hand in hers, and walked him with great determination toward the edge of the sidewalk. "If we start making the big bucks off these rich people, I am getting my own place. Fine, I'm gonna take Finn, and we'll grab Rachel and Puck, and we'll go see something _rated PG-13._ "

"Nice," Finn said to Mike a second later, catching up, and let himself be led into a taxi. They pulled away and were soon only another pair of taillights in the darkness.

Mike was suddenly aware that Mercedes, despite her constant budget concerns, had taken that cab without a second thought. _We did it,_ he realized with shock. _We found our footing._ After years of constant uncertainty and Sam sneaking out extra food from office parties at the Bugle, their company might not be counting on the last precious dollars kept in reserve from Finn's salary just to make rent. "I bet Agatha said she'd tell her friends. I bet she has friends who'll use us."

"Wow," Tina said a second later, when the full weight of that hit. Rich patrons with easy jobs: this could be the start of something big. "I mean... wow."

Life moves on, Mike thought as he looked back at Agatha's building and the window for the room they'd cleared. In the end, it always moves on.

* * *

Carole had taken three weeks to return to work. Normally a grieving family member was expected to report back to duty after two, but given that she'd already lost a husband in the line of duty, HR was lenient.

She'd spent a week catching up. At first everyone offered soft platitudes and well wishes, but her short, functional answers had centered them back on their shared workload. She didn't want to think about her dead son any more than she wanted to think about her husband's corpse landing on top of her. She wanted to think about logistics chains and contingency plans.

After a week spent reviewing files, Carole realized with faint dismay that she could never leave S.H.I.E.L.D. Around the time of Kurt's funeral, she'd nursed a fierce grudge against Nick Fury. She still hated him with the fierce protective heart of a parent, but her logical mind knew that countless agents had perished in the line of duty, and not always in a clean, honorable way that would satisfy their family. Carole had watched agents vanish from the screen in her own managed missions. Those parents had been told about their dead children, just as she had. It suddenly becoming personal to her didn't change the fact that it had all happened before and would happen again.

And, she thought as she worked on another mission, the work they did was too valuable to question. In the end, countless people were alive who didn't even know that they had S.H.I.E.L.D. to thank. Truthfully, 'countless' was really the entire population of the globe, dozens of times over. That was the work they did. Those were the stakes.

She could be miserable, resentful, and lost, and yet Carole still started looking forward to coming in to work every morning. She was doing good in the world and she needed that. Christmas would be better. New Year's would be better. 

She wanted to punch every picture she saw of Nick Fury, just on principle for how Kurt had been their inadvertent sacrificial lamb, but things would be better. Eventually.

Well into her return, Carole reviewed the day's reports for any further support needed from the New York headquarters. While many of the agents were distracted by Christmas, she was only becoming more productive as she rediscovered the joys of work. Her supervisors were only too happy to give her the files she craved.

Forces massing alongside a border of Wakanda. Carole set that aside. It might get another review after tomorrow's developments, but even someone like her knew that help should only be given when that nation expressly requested it. (It was safe to assume they'd _never_ request it.)

Hewlett-Packard's new inkjet printer line apparently had brighter ink than anything else on the market. Carole, frowning, wondered why that earned a S.H.I.E.L.D. writeup until she saw the suspected source of that mixture: the ashy remnants of an alien ship that had burned up in the atmosphere and landed near a petrochemical supplier. If any of the aliens' telepathic powers lingered in their remains, reading stories printed with that ink could be a wilder trip than dropping acid. Carole sent that on to their science department, high priority.

Most of the reports were far more mundane. A half-dozen sniper attacks. Some of the shooters had been found, like the man in D.C., while others had managed to position themselves at angles that kept them out of view, like whoever'd fired shots at a research campus in Japan. Carole dutifully forwarded them on, although she didn't expect anything to come out of the trickier reports. They either had video footage and security readings or they didn't, and if they didn't, no other details mattered. Even sloppy footage could be restored and real bases had every angle covered, but civilian outlets and low-grade campuses like that had plenty of holes in their security. The likely outcome, if anything, would be the addition of better measures for the future.

The report on Japan was one among many.

Carole forgot about it as soon as she was done.


	13. Set It Running Free

"He was so pissed," Quinn giggled as she reached to fill her plate. In what had become a tradition of two years, she and her friends were gathered for pre-Christmas dim sum. "Tommy and the other producers actually thought that I would just fall into a love triangle because I'd met two big, strapping Avengers. That was their entire rationale, I swear."

"I would," Sam mumbled. Mercedes stroked his arm. Quinn smirked and wondered how long Sam would be in New York before he stopped fanboying over all the superheroes he encountered.

"Steve's been going to my church every week since you asked," Mercedes said, grinning. "He loves it there and they love having Captain America."

"The next time you guys have a party, you'll invite me, right?" Sam asked.

"We promise that we will," Rachel said. "Just, please try not to upset Bruce like Finn did."

"I still don't know what happened," Finn grumbled. 

"We're so glad that we have your keen investigative mind on our crew," Tina said, smiling at him.

"Shut up."

Quinn laughed. She felt so light, like she hadn't for months. Between ever more pressing work commitments, falling away from her friends, and then tragedy striking one of them, her life had been an endless grind that exploded at the end. While she did enjoy the new girls she'd met at NYU, she could never replace the people around her. They were the first real friends she'd had, the first people who truly knew her, and the people with whom she shared a bond that had nearly destroyed and then saved the world. (Sam didn't quite fit, but she loved him, anyway.) 

Although it had taken a terrible price to make them realize how much they meant to each other, they'd all made course corrections. Instead of glamorous parties, Brittany had declared that they were going to have Truth or Dare nights with the old New Directions gang. Quinn knew that Rachel and Finn had dragged Puck back into the land of the living nearly by force, even though Finn was still sporting the cast that Puck had given to him. Although he still looked distant, Puck was there and even managed an occasional smile. It was an improvement. 

"I want to know what everyone's been up to," Mercedes said. "We just told you about the whole rich lady ghost house, so... Quinn, go."

"Well, the thing with the producers."

"Oh, right."

Artie took the lead when Mercedes' idea threatened to die stillborn. "I know this probably sounds mad boring to all of you guys," he said, "but we're hoping that we can get the first test stage of our energy project running live after New Year's. By then we're going to start making components and everything."

"It's not boring!" Finn protested. "We totally want to hear about your sciencey nerd stuff. So, what's your project all about?"

"Well," Artie said, "it's actually super promising. We wanted to steer clear of tapping the Tesseract again for... obvious reasons." A current of agreement ran through the group. If one science experiment with the object had already empowered them and nearly served them up for draining and execution by a race of energy-hungry shadow creatures, steering clear of round two was probably a good idea. "But we're going to run trial reactors first, to make sure they're stable. Then, after a year, we're going to move into small test communities to see if they can run off our power." Artie shrugged, false modesty painting his face. "We might be headed for a dispersed, flexible grid with a great lifespan and no pollution output. Zilcho."

"And you get to make the transistors for it," Mike added with a grin.

Artie refused to be baited. "You only wish you could make transistors as awesome as mine."

"I've been training with the Avengers, of course," Rachel said, jumping in, "and I've convinced Noah to assist me."

"Yay," Puck drawled.

"I've even had a costume designed for him and everything," Rachel added. "It's very exciting."

"Yay."

"And it's also exciting," Rachel said more gently, "because he's going to be with friends, being productive and helpful, and doing things that will make him proud. Because you're a good man and sometimes you just need a little help to remember that."

Puck looked down with a sad smile. 

"You're awesome, dude," Sam said. He leaned back and patted his side. "I've got a big scar over my liver thanks to you. Wait, that sounded bad. I even got the _chance_ to have this big scar because of you. Uh, I mean...."

"I've got it," Puck said and his smile became a little more genuine, if no bigger. "Thanks for the reminder."

"You're great, Puck," Brittany added. "Even if your head looks sad and naked now, like when we had to shave off Lord Tubbington's fur around his butt because he sat down on my chewing gum sculpture of Lisa Rinna."

"I don't ask about some things," Santana said when everyone turned to her for an explanation.

"Hey," Finn said, his eyes wide and bright. "I found it! I found whatever memories Emma hid! It's like someone stuck a sticker on my brain, and now I can see the edge where I just need to peel—" He reddened as he presumably succeeded at overcoming her block, and whatever memories she'd hidden hit him with sudden full force.

"So," Tina asked, her hand curled impishly under her chin, "what'd you just remember?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Finn said.

"Come on," Santana said. "You didn't look scared or anything. You looked hilariously ashamed of yourself, and that's my favorite sight in the world. Give me my Christmas present, Hudson."

Finn looked around the table full of people who would hound him until he gave in, mouthed a curse, and said, "It was the time I got sick at school and hurled all over Artie and Santana, okay?" Quinn fought back laughter, as did many others. She could remember that day back in their Manhattan government school: they'd bet him as to how many sidewalk hot dogs he could consume at lunch before classes resumed. He'd overestimated himself.

Santana wrinkled her nose. "Oh, gross. I'd forgotten that. This present sucks, I want a new one."

More laughter rang out around the table and they began to consume their meals with enthusiasm. 

When they were done and the group made its slow, amorphous journey to the door, Quinn found herself walking with all of the girls. _I miss this_ , she thought. _I miss song practices and gossiping in the school bathroom._ "Let's go out," she said to them abruptly. "Girls' night."

"A karaoke club!" Rachel said.

"You _always_ say that," Mercedes said. 

"I wouldn't mind that," Quinn said. "I was just thinking how I miss being in choir together."

"Fine," Santana said, "karaoke. We're going to keep track of how many songs you sing, Berry." Brittany nodded and squinted at her, like she was mentally taking aim if she needed to bring down Rachel on stage with a tranquilizer gun.

"I'll see you later, babe," Tina said and pecked Mike on his cheek. "We're doing a girls' night, okay?"

"Take care of Puck," Quinn could just hear Rachel whisper to Finn. "Nothing that would remind him of Kurt." Finn nodded and the guys walked off together, possibly for a night of their own. 

"Hey." Santana nudged Mercedes' shoulder as they waited for taxis. Their breath steamed in the cold air. "Look, I'm sorry I said that stupid stuff at the funeral."

"You already apologized."

"Yeah, well, this time I mean it." Mercedes laughed and Santana grinned wide to match. "I feel like I'm doing the best thing I could possibly be doing with my life by showing all those little girls that they're okay. And then our asshole producers said that I wasn't okay, after all, and so those girls weren't okay... yeah, I lashed out. I do that sometimes."

"Sometimes?" Mercedes repeated, her eyebrow arched. "And it's great that you're helping those girls, but don't tell me that all those fancy clothes didn't play into you wanting to do that show."

"I do that all the time, fine. And I love my clothes, but... see Brit's hair?"

Obligingly, Brittany twirled a long lock of hair around her finger. She'd darkened her pink streaks from Pepto to fuschia, but they were otherwise just like they'd been. If someone didn't know the meaning behind it, they might find it surprising that someone as mercurial as Brittany had stuck with a fashion statement for so long. Quinn did, though, and the sight always made her smile. "Girls are dying their hair to say that they're special and different," Brittany said. "It's awesome and we're both super proud of all our little sparkly fangirls."

"I did this for the clothes," Santana finished, "and also I could feel like I, me, Santana was okay just the way she she was. You're right, that's what I did at first. But now I just want to let kids in towns like Lima know that they don't have to feel like I did. They don't have to be so scared, and they're not going to be someone's second choice like I thought I always was."

"Not even our producers'," Quinn added.

"Thank you for being so great about this," Santana said, turning to her. "It would have been super easy for you to have taken over the entire show. You know it would have been."

Yes, it would have been. Quinn could see it now: entire checkout aisles plastered with her face, and endless commercials for their show that cared about nothing more than who she might choose to date. "I love that they're paying for me to go to school and take care of myself," Quinn said, "but you know, I don't really care about being famous. Not really. If you ever think that I'm taking over, let me know."

"I think we should hug," Rachel decided and held out her arms. Mercedes and Santana let themselves be gathered into the group embrace, and neither protested. They even smiled.

Though they managed to slip into a club without being noticed, and stayed hidden as the girls busied themselves with finding a table and getting drinks, their anonymity vanished as soon as Santana and Brittany scrambled on stage. "Hey!" someone said from the crowd and held up his phone. "It's those hot lesbians from the TV show!"

"Well, that's going to be all over YouTube tonight," Quinn giggled as she watched more phones shoot up to record Santana and Brittany performing Crazy in Love with improvised choreography. It wasn't the best song for either of them, and they occasionally tripped over the words in the verses, but their natural talent and enthusiasm carried them.

"Gonna join them?" Mercedes asked. "Then they can have all their hot TV show girls up there." It was said without rancor. Mostly.

Quinn shook her head from their table in the shadows. "No. Let them have the spotlight. I think we've all had quite enough of me inadvertently swooping in to steal it." She took Rachel and Tina's hands where they rested near her, squeezed, and said, "I just want to sit here and feel like me again. No contracts, no producers, no cameras."

"Do you wish you hadn't done the show?" Mercedes asked. "You sounded less hip-hip-hooray about the whole television thing than Santana does."

"I loved it in the first season," Quinn said. "I still love a... lot of days." The other three didn't seem to know quite how to react to that. _Oh well,_ Quinn thought. Rachel, Artie, and Brittany might have found successful life paths right from the very first day that they moved back to New York, but the challenges faced by the rest of them were still perfectly normal. It was a rare person who stumbled into the right life path right away, even if that made their success no less annoying. 

"So, Mercedes, I've gotta ask," Tina said, "and be blunt. Promise me you'll be totally blunt. There are witnesses and everything."

"Okay," Mercedes said warily. 

"Do I have annoying roommate habits? Do you want to get rid of me? Do you want your own place, or to live with Sam instead?"

Startled, Mercedes clasped her other hand. "Sweetie, no, I love living with you." When that didn't put Tina at ease, she leaned forward. "What? What do you want me to say? Trust me, I wouldn't give you up as a roomie if somebody paid me."

"Oh," Tina sighed, "you were supposed to say that you couldn't stand me and wanted to get away."

Quinn and Rachel exchanged a glance, their eyebrows mobile.

"I don't understand," Mercedes said. "Do you not want to live together any more?"

"I love living with you. But it's just... now that we're not going to be scrambling so much, and maybe we can actually feel like we've got both feet on the ground...." Tina smiled, and looked over her shoulder at the door. "I want to ask Mike to live with me."

"Oh," Mercedes said and blinked.

"You want to get _serious_ ," Quinn added, hearing something in Tina's voice. She didn't think that roommate situation would last long on its own; it sounded like a stepping stone for even more.

"We've been together for years," Tina said. "We're happy, we know what we want to do with our lives, and that we want to be together forever." She turned to the stage, where Santana and Brittany were just finishing up and were met with calls for an encore by a television-hungry crowd. "I'm kinda surprised that they're not engaged, yet. You know?"

"Engaged... wait. Mike's going to propose?" Rachel asked, leaning in with delighted shock.

"Well, no, I was thinking that maybe I would."

Quinn jolted from all the memories of a traditional upbringing that had been pounded into her by families in both New York and Lima. She saw the other two girls do the same, and they exchanged rueful smiles. Mercedes was as traditional as Quinn on many things, and Rachel loved to plan out life moments in her head. She'd probably written out a script for her proposal that any poor would-be suitor would have to follow. But now, Quinn was someone who had taken women's studies classes and hung out with girls with neon hair and nose rings. She shouldn't have to work to discard 'the guy proposes' as the default assumption. Still, it took a second. "That's amazing. Congratulations."

"I'm your maid of honor," Mercedes instantly said.

"Excuse me," Rachel said, "but I think we could at least draw straws for this. It's the first time any of us have gotten married, and we need to be fair about it."

"I'm her best friend and roommate, Berry. You'll get your shot."

"We'll see." Rachel squeezed Tina's hand. "I'll help you pick out bridesmaid dresses that will flatter all of us. We were just using the Avengers' fashion consultant to get a costume made for Noah. We could get all sorts of feedback on what's available in stores."

Tina blinked. "Uh, guys? I haven't even asked Mike to move in with me, yet. He hasn't said yes. And so I definitely haven't asked him to marry me, and there's no wedding being planned." She took in Mercedes and Rachel's hangdog expressions and relented. "Whenever I get married, Mercedes, you're my maid of honor. Sorry, Rachel, she's my best friend."

Rachel pouted as Mercedes pumped her fist.

"It won't be for a while!" Tina warned them. "We've just gotten that one big contract from Mrs. Walker. I don't want to add any personal stress to my life until we're definitely on solid ground, and weddings are made of stress and money. Unless we elope," she added, musing.

"You'd better take your maid of honor along with you, if you do," Mercedes said. "And I guess this means I'm okay with it," she added with a wry smile. 

"I can't believe I'm saying this," Quinn laughed as she stirred her drink, "but I've actually missed this, too. Just... being around everyone as we argue. It's sort of weirdly comforting." Her mind filled with the memory of Sue Sylvester warning her not to be alone. 

"So," Tina asked. "You're okay with me moving out. Does this mean you're going to move in with Sam?"

"One step at a time," Mercedes said. "Everyone's gotta move at their own speed, and my speed's a little less... speedy. I couldn't even legally have a champagne toast at my wedding for another few weeks, still, you know?" She looked at Rachel like she was handing off a baton in a relay race. Apparently, it was time for a major life discussion about their romantic futures.

"It's sort of funny," Rachel said. "I would have thought we'd be a lot further along than we are by this point, but Finn and I are just sort of... I think we're still figuring out our lives. We have so much that we're trying to do. I don't want to hinder my goals by focusing on the wrong thing at the wrong time, and I know he doesn't want to feel like he's holding me back as I work with the Avengers."

"And you don't want to hold him back?" Quinn added. She felt more sympathy for Rachel than Finn, but still, it would be nice to know his dreams were even considered.

"Of course," Rachel said. "I mean, if he were to really go for something, I wouldn't want to hurt his chances. He talks about it a lot, striking off for something bigger, but I honestly think that he's happy where he is. It's my life that's unsettled, really. What about you?"

Quinn thought about saying something more regarding their relationships, but shook her head. Sam and Mercedes were perfectly normal for not wanting to move in together at twenty years old. People's twenties were often dedicated to figuring out just where they wanted to be in the world, and so Rachel racing ahead on her set goals wasn't a model that Finn should feel ashamed for not yet being able to match. And as for her, well: she was more than happy to be single for years to come. "My hands are already full managing my producers," Quinn said. "I can't handle any more men in my life."

Rachel tittered. "I can only imagine. Tony Stark can be a bad enough boss and we're all on the same team. He flirts with me constantly, and it took it happening right in front of his girlfriend before I realized that it wasn't serious. It was a reflex, like breathing." She considered that, then amended, "Granted, he did leave me alone when I was in the worst of my, um, mourning period."

That sobered them and the conversation teetered on an edge. Fortunately, Brittany and Santana chose that moment to return to their table. "Hey," Santana said, breathless. "Did we rock?"

"You totally rocked," Tina said.

"Tina's going to propose to Mike!" Rachel said, her fists balled to her chin.

"Shut the fuck up," Santana said. "Shut the _fuck_ up. We're going to throw you the biggest bachelorette party ever."

"I'm going to invite Doreen," Brittany said. Quinn recognized Squirrel Girl's real name. "She can have squirrels deliver party favors to everyone and it'll be totally cute. Can we hire a stripper?"

"Guys, this isn't happening right away," Tina said helplessly.

Brittany frowned. "If you're not going to hire a stripper, then can I dance?"

"For right now," Rachel said, "she's just going to ask Mike to move in with her. They'll live in domestic bliss for a while and then she'll pop the question, or perhaps he will. Let's not get excited and ask too much of Tina right now."

"Thank you," Tina said.

"And that's exactly the sort of help that a maid of honor would offer," Rachel pointed out.

"Give a rest, Berry," Mercedes said, laughing.

"Just so everyone's clear and nobody argues about it," Brittany said, "Quinn would totally be Santana's maid of honor, and Deadpool would be mine."

Everyone blinked at her mention of the mercenary.

"He looks really cute in a dress."

"Wait," Mercedes said. "Are _you_ two talking about getting...?"

Brittany and Santana looked at each other, startled, and then grinned in slow unison. What would have been a bombshell to drop on some couples instead seemed as natural to ask them if they wanted to grab Thai for dinner. _That's what happens when you're together through everything we've seen,_ Quinn thought, _and one of you is so important to the other person that you keep their world-altering powers in balance._

She didn't need a boyfriend right then, she really didn't. But eventually, it'd be nice to find someone who seemed to fit into her life half as well as Brittany and Santana fit together.

"The idea doesn't... suck," Santana said, clearly trying to hide her delight. "But nothing can be official right now, because it has to be on the observation deck of the Empire State Building or something. Somewhere romantic."

"What has to be?" Brittany asked.

"Any real proposal, if we're going to beat Mike and Tina to getting engaged."

"So we're sort of... engaged to be engaged," Brittany said.

"Yeah, I guess that's how it works." Santana rolled the notion over and nodded, apparently satisfied. Though she might want a famous landmark and a perfect sunset for any real proposal, she seemed perfectly happy with their proposal-to-propose coming in the middle of a dark, noisy karaoke bar. "We're engaged to be engaged." She leaned forward and kissed Brittany, long and slow, and the girls cooed in overdramatic unison like some old sitcom audience.

"Shut up," Santana said, barely pulling far enough away from Brittany's lips to form the words.

"I'm singing!" Rachel said through her giggles. "I'm singing, and later I'm going to sing duets with some of you, and it's all going to be perfect and this night is never going to end."

"Because everything seems to make sense right now," Quinn agreed. "Finally."

"Finally," Rachel said. She hesitated before leaving for her promised song. "I have to act like I know what I'm doing when Noah works with me. And I've been training, I really have, but I still can't forget how the base assault that I was leading ended up in Finn, Sam, and Blaine all getting shot. What if I'm not—"

"Go sing," Quinn said. "This is a happy night. No self-doubt. We tear ourselves down every single day, and every single time we look in the mirror or try on new clothes. We're not doing it tonight."

Rachel saluted her. "Thank you for the reminder, Quinn. I suppose I get a little flustered trying to handle everything myself, and... and I'm not complaining, not tonight. It just seems so much easier," Rachel said as she slid off her stool and made her way to the stage, "if you have someone telling you what you're supposed to do."

* * *

"Block me," Emma Frost said as she slapped Finn across a psychic representation of his face, yet again.

"I'm trying," he snapped. "You've got me trying to figure out where this latest memory is and it's distracting."

"All right," she said, sweet as honey. "I'm sorry. You're right, I'm pushing you too hard. Take all the time you need."

The world around them was a soft blue void. The first time Emma had taken them out of their bodies, Finn had freaked on a level he'd never equaled before or since. By now, the mysteries of the Astral Plane were as annoying a sight as the classroom for a hated teacher. His physical body was slumped on his bed back in his apartment; hers was neatly perched in a chair. Being able to leave your body like this was apparently an inherent skill, and one he didn't have; he had to be guided with her help. She seemed to enjoy the fact that he needed her.

Finn tried to ignore the vague, flashing lights in the distance, like lightning behind clouds, and picked neatly at the sticker edge he could just feel in his brain. He just needed to get a fingernail under it, and—

Emma slapped him.

Finn, furious, took a step toward her and fell over. His ankles were bound with strands of the same blue energy that surrounded them. Emma was a giant stupid tower of white-clothed smugness above him, and Finn struggled like a landed fish at her feet.

"Calm down, imagine your legs free, and they will be." Finn flopped around a while longer until Emma put her booted foot against his cheek and pressed down just hard enough to suggest imminent pain. "Calm _down_ , Hudson. My god, I have no idea how someone as dense as you ever manages to contain psychic powers without your brain dribbling out through your nose."

A few deep breaths centered him enough to focus upon his bonds, and Finn imagined them gone and his feet free. The energy remained unchanged and he strained like he was lifting weights.

"You have to overcome my perception of it, and then it will become real."

"Stop changing the rules!" Finn said, but Emma's foot was unnaturally steady against him and he somehow knew that he had no hope of getting out from under it.

_This is so not my strong point_ , Finn thought as he tried to picture his ankles free and unencumbered. Focusing, staying calm, and thinking really, really hard? _Why wasn't Artie the telepath?_ Finn wondered miserably as his feet stayed bound. Artie was the brain guy. Finn didn't want to be the brain guy. Even now, he wanted powers like Puck's.

"If you can't untie your ankles," Emma suggested, "why not retrieve the memories I've hidden? At least then you'd still be accomplishing something during today's training."

"You are the suckiest Yoda ever," Finn told her before he laid his head back down on the soft blue nothing below it and worked on the slick sticker covering some unknown part of his mind. Emma had chosen a harmless variety of memories for him to recover on his own: the funny bet he'd made over the hot dogs, dates with Quinn and Rachel, bringing home the new puppies to Carole and Burt's house on Long Island. Until he recovered those memories, he had no idea they'd ever happened: he'd never made that bet, he'd never gone to see those movies, he'd never been involved with bringing home those dogs. 

It was tricky, Finn thought as he worked the covering free, to know to look for something that you couldn't even remember. But, she was right: there was an art to it, and with some practice he was actually getting pretty good. He wondered what it was that he was about to remember, and with a great yank, restored the memories to his mind.

Finn went very still when he remembered standing up to his first father because of the man's homophobic distrust of his own son. "You tricked me," he said.

"Did I?"

"These memories hurt. They all hit me at once, too."

"I could have hidden your memories of finding those photographs in the entry hall, and made you recover all of those at once," Emma said. "I felt that this would be more illuminating, though. Take the bonds off your ankles."

He tried, struggling harder each second, but couldn't. Miserable, Finn rolled around in his recovered memories and thought about how broken his brother had looked as their father slipped in yet another blow about his body or behavior. Before his telepathic powers, Finn had missed so many of those little jabs. More than anything else before they'd left New York, he'd been glad to be able to stop those.

Emma bit off a sigh. "What's your goal, Finn?"

"To stand up."

"Yes, very good, I obviously meant a larger _life_ goal."

"I don't know. I'm pretty good at being a captain of stuff, so maybe I'll lead the firm now that we're dealing with these new people." He sensed Emma's raised eyebrow, rather than seeing it, still stuck under her boot like he was. "What? I think that makes sense. I can figure out what all those rich weirdoes want to hear so they'll hire us. That'll be helpful."

"And I'm sure that your other three co-workers will happily step aside to let you, Finn Hudson, lead them." She had that airy, bitchy quality to her voice that Quinn sometimes got when she was laying the sarcasm on too thick. "By this point I'm wondering if we need to address some deeper issues before we can put you in control of your powers. I've seen an obvious conflict within your mind and, after getting to know you, I'm not surprised that you've completely failed to address it on your own."

Oh, yay. Now he was in therapy with a really annoying dominatrix. Just what he'd always wanted.

"Tell me some of your proudest moments. The ones where you felt like you were really living up to your potential."

He was quiet as he dug through his mind. "The ones you hid just now. I hadn't realized how much better Dad was treating me just because I looked and sounded more like him. And Kurt could deal with things, or he said he could, anyway. I could have let it go on. But it wasn't right, and so I stopped letting Dad treat me like he had been."

She wanted more, he could tell. 

"When I was able to stop that car from falling on Rachel and Kurt," Finn remembered. He'd gotten there just in time. It stopped mere inches above them on that Columbus street, and even if the weight had left him near-unconscious and bloody, he'd still saved them. "That was like... wow, I did that, me. I saved them. Even if I didn't...."

"You didn't what?"

"I guess I didn't save him, in the end." Finn stared out at nothing, and eventually finished, "When I found Rachel in London, and when I found that little girl who'd been kidnapped. And the kidnapped mutants. I did save them." A beat. "Yeah, and when I went to tell Puck in person what had happened, even though it meant that he broke my arm. I didn't want to have to tell everyone so, _so_ much, but it was the right thing to do. Besides, I mean... I can tell what people are feeling. It's only right. Right?"

"Those are your examples?" Emma asked.

"Yeah. Are they bad?"

"No." Emma lifted her boot and Finn was surprised to realize that his ankles were free. He sat up and rubbed where she'd pinned him down. "But I'd just like you to notice that you didn't mention being the captain of the football team, or leading your little choir, or leading anyone at all."

Frowning, Finn stood and looked at her in question. "I mean, I'm proud of those, too."

"Why? Because it's who you really are, or because it's who you think you're supposed to be?" She folded her arms across her chest and cocked a hip to the side. Although she looked at ease, Finn knew that she could have him hogtied again at the speed of thought. "You struggle and fight and try to force yourself into being who and what you think you should be, and you've done so all your life. You try to fit into that mold of the big, strapping hero that your father always saw, even as you think that you rejected him."

Finn blinked. "Where the hell did this come from?"

"I've been digging inside your brain for months, Mr. Hudson. It's time to lay some things out in the open, because quite frankly I'm as sick of these sessions as you are." Her gloved hands moved to her hips. "When you're flexible and supportive, you're kinder to others and stronger for yourself. When you insist upon being the conquering hero or mighty leader, you're too often a relentless jackass who makes some of the worst decisions I've ever seen. And yet you think that's what you want, because it's what you grew up being told that you were."

"Hey!" he sputtered.

"Tell me one thing that you contributed to your friends' heroic group as its leader. You always insisted upon being counted as a captain. Tell me what you did to earn that."

"I...." Finn stared at the blue void around them. "I named us."

"You're really going to take credit for 'the Awesomes?'"

He scowled, then brightened. "I tracked Puck when we needed to find where he'd run off to."

"And that's leading, rather than helping?" she asked pointedly.

"Why are you insulting me like this?" Finn asked, growing hot with frustration. "I'm learning. I was able to uncover some memories on my own."

"The fact that you think that I'm insulting you by telling you to be supportive," Emma said, "is indicative all on its own." She stepped forward and placed her hands on his shoulders. She was one of the tallest women he'd ever met and wore a typically ridiculous pair of stiletto heels. Emma was able to look Finn squarely in the eyes as she said, "When you all were granted your powers, your potential was being unlocked. You still resent the powers that you've been given because you struggle against your true strengths, and cling to weaknesses that society has pounded into your head since you were a child. Would you rather be a famous team leader moving your pawns around a chessboard, or work hard on your own, without any attention, and save a dozen more kidnapped children from their captors?"

Finn didn't say anything, but he thought of what it had looked like when they'd broken up that trafficking operation before it got any worse.

"Would you sacrifice your brother if it meant stopping a war, or would you rather hold and comfort the people close to you at his funeral and help them get through the pain?"

Finn jerked back. "Why the hell would you ask that?"

She didn't flinch. "Nick Fury is a leader, Finn. I am a leader. I've made choices that would horrify you, if you could even bring yourself to consider them. I make the tough calls that you stumble on. I would have sent agents on your brother's mission a hundred times over even if I knew that every time would end in death, because the other numbers at risk were so much bigger. I can keep everything in order in my mind, and power through to a goal I see in the distance without ignoring other important points. You, on the other hand, turn into a bull in a china shop.

"Be flexible," she said and patted his cheek almost affectionately. "I can see that many of your little friends have made some bad decisions about how to apply themselves, but I'm only interested in finishing up our sessions. Focus on what you're good at. If you were willing to tell your father off once, then tell him again. Stop trying to be a leader for him. It's lonely at the top, not everyone is made for it, and a good foundation can be just as important."

Finn stepped back and wrapped his arms around himself. "I thought you were just supposed to help me get my powers under control. I don't want you digging around inside my memories and stuff."

"That's what I'm doing. You're trying to muscle your way through everything, just like you try to do in life. Breathe. Relax. React and flow, rather than trying to always make the first move or force a situation to bend to you."

This all sounded familiar, Finn realized. "I'm an airbender trying to be an earthbender?"

"What?"

Score, he'd finally confused her. "Put something around my wrists, like you did with my ankles," Finn said and held them out. Blue shackles appeared and he frowned at them in consideration. _Emma is keeping them there. I want them to go away._ His first instinct, as before, was to focus on the affected area and outright attack what he saw. Instead he felt the currents of the psychic world around them, much like he'd listened to the ghosts in Mrs. Walker's mansion. He measured his own feelings and tried to discard what wouldn't help. And, most of all, he listened to what Emma was doing and how he could relate his mind to hers.

Emma wouldn't let go of the idea that the shackles existed, which Finn had struggled fruitlessly with before. Now that he was paying attention to everything around him, though, he could see that she didn't care so much _where_ those shackles were. With a mind for Emma, Finn focused upon picturing the glowing manacles a foot above his wrists, rather than around them.

He was abruptly free, and the bonds fell and vanished before they hit the ground.

"Better," Emma said and actually smiled. "I've just hidden more memories, by the way."

"Oh, come on."

"Maybe you shouldn't obsess over them, and let them all return in a rush?" she suggested. "If you just let them return naturally, wearing away that that shield at a slower pace, you wouldn't be overcome."

"React," Finn said. "Don't force it."

"Right. And since you're not focusing your limited mental energy exclusively on that, you'll have enough left over to notice me doing this."

Her psychic arm came up to slap him and Finn blocked it with telekinesis. He grinned, but she was relentless. Her open palm became a sword, and then Emma was in full plate armor, her face unencumbered and blonde hair streaming free. She moved with a grace she couldn't possibly have on earth, but this was the Astral Plane: their territory. Finn reacted. He listened to her mind and felt where the strikes were going to come. He deflected a blow aimed at his neck that would have given him a migraine for hours, he forced back a stab straight at his heart that would have overwhelmed him with painful memories. 

_Airbender airbender,_ Finn thought, _or maybe this is waterbending? No! Focus. Don't argue with yourself. ...Definitely not fire or earth, though._

Emma nearly managed to attack him and Finn tried not to think of anything but his body, her mind, and the swirling void around them. Parry, dodge, shield, parry.

She overextended once, and Finn's telekinesis swept out to in a great wave that sent Emma to the ground. "I did it!" he said, delighted. "I won!"

Emma sat up, rubbed her jaw, and smirked.

"You totally left that opening, didn't you?" Finn realized sheepishly. He hadn't won. He'd gotten a lucky strike in and she'd intended for him to make it.

"Yes. But you managed to take it." She stood and extended her hand. "Let's call it a day."

* * *

"And I hit her!" Finn said, bubbly with excitement. "Finally, I blocked her and I got through and I smacked her right in the face!"

Rachel and Puck stared at him.

"It was her psychic face," Finn amended. "She told me to do it. Oh, come on, that's what she was training me to do! Being able to get through her shields and land a hit!"

"Okay, fine, whatever," Puck said, "but you want to take your voice down a couple of notches?" He inclined his head and Finn turned to see a few patrons of the restaurant staring at him with disgust.

"It's not what it sounds like," Finn reassured them. "One of the X-Men is teaching me how to be a psychic badass and she was training me in this crazy blue imaginary nightmare land. I didn't really hit her."

"Honey, you're just digging a deeper hole," Rachel said, patting one of his hands. 

"You punched Shelby, didn't you?" Puck asked, shifting his weight in his chair like he was late for an appointment or needed to pee. "I mean, with your TK."

"Yeah. I mean, I didn't want to, but Sue was going to shoot you in the head to get to her." Finn hesitated. "You guys are right, I need a new move, this looks really bad."

"In all fairness, Finn, it's not your fault that so many other psychics are women. I think we're all happy that you treated Shelby just as you would any foe who posed a threat to us." Rachel shrugged. "You know, it's actually not polite to treat a female hero as lesser just because of her sex. Why, a villain I fought just last week treated me like a little girl that he didn't want to hit, and it was the perfect chance for me to knock him out with one big explosion to his face. Noah, you're pale."

"Yeah, I was just flashing back to that." Puck rubbed his arms like he was cold. "It hits me, sometimes: having to do whatever Shelby wanted me to, even though she was going to kill me. I just... sorry. It came out of nowhere. I haven't thought about that for a long time." _Because I'm thinking of anything besides Kurt, I guess. I've gotta grab for better stuff to distract myself._

Finn fought back his look of sympathy just in time. He shouldn't be reading Puck's thoughts. "That happens," Finn agreed. "I kind of remember getting shot." He remembered finding the pictures all the time, but he never mentioned it to anyone. "It's like... it's like the weather. One minute you're fine and everything's sunny and great, but then clouds roll in and everything's dark all of a sudden. You didn't even know it was coming."

"But then the sun comes back," Rachel said, clearly determined to keep up their spirits. "Noah, are you available for training? If you're going to be associated with our team, then the official members of the Avengers have asked that you spar a little with them at the Tower so that they can make sure that you're ready."

"Sure." Puck rolled his eyes when she seemed to want more enthusiasm. "I said yes. I'm doing stuff, I'm spending time with my friends, but I'm not going to freaking dance about it. Just point me at where I'm supposed to punch, and I'll punch."

"See, now, _you're_ an earthbender," Finn said.

Puck and Rachel both stared at him, faint lines etched in their foreheads.

"Never mind. I've just watched a lot of TV ever since S.H.I.E.L.D. gave me my own plasma screens," Finn mumbled.

"I'm going home for Christmas," Puck said. "In a couple of days. So I can't do any training until I come back. I get to see my sister, since I didn't at Thanksgiving, and... yeah."

Rachel smiled. "That's good. And it's fine. We can start up after Christmas, and then they'll have the first mockup of your costume ready by then. It can be all tailored and altered for you by New Year's."

"She's making me dress like a road sign," Puck confided to Finn.

"I get to wear jeans to work if I want," Finn said, smirking back. He rubbed his cast. "Hey, by then this'll come off. Good, I'm sick of it." Although he could use his telekinesis to make up for his hindered hand, he still hated the feel of the thing around his arm. "I can't believe it's already been on this long."

"I know," Rachel said. "So much time has passed. I don't know how it just slipped away. All of a sudden, everything's happening again and the weeks are racing by."

"I remember every single day," Puck said.

Finn didn't know what to say to that. Although he wanted to argue with Puck over who'd been hurt most on that day, he instead tested the air around him: the vague sense he got from Puck's mind, what he could pick up from his expression, what Rachel seemed to think. Finn bit his tongue, stirred his coffee in silence, and let the lecture he'd wanted to make fall by the wayside.

Airbending.

Maybe that was his thing, after all.

* * *

After a month and more spent as Doom's slave, Kurt had stopped fighting. Doom treated him like a toy, like he was a young boy given a BB gun to whom everything looked like a target, and he sent Kurt on easy, petty missions to cement him in his new life of servitude. Though S.H.I.E.L.D. was his ultimate goal, and one that would show Doom’s enemies that his plans could never be trifled with, he was willing to be patient. There was an excellent chance that Kurt would not return when he was finally sent against his old agency. Before that mission, Doom wanted to handle some other business.

Kurt’s body moved without him. His weapons mastery aimed his hands, his flexibility and balance guided his feet. So long as he was conscious, that was enough to carry out his missions, and so he hid in a corner of his mind like he’d hidden in a corner of his magical prison during death. At first, he hid only when he was pulling the trigger on someone who’d had the courage to stand up to a madman. Once he saw that he could get away with that, Kurt disengaged from his own mind as much as he could manage. Recently, he realized that three days had passed since the last time he’d looked at a calendar. 

He wondered what he’d stolen to bring back to Doom’s lab, what files he’d photographed, or who he’d killed in the meantime.

"It is time," Doom said when Kurt was brought before him. "The highest, sharpest forms of Doom’s revenge will now take place."

Kurt, kneeling, stared vacantly at the stone floor under his feet. _Maybe they’ll see me this time and get a good shot off._ That would be ideal, but he didn’t really hope for it. Hope seemed foolish. All emotions were. Whenever he felt anything, it was harder to pretend the world around him wasn’t happening. "I have no loyalty left for S.H.I.E.L.D.," he recited. That was true; loyalty had to be felt.

"Not S.H.I.E.L.D.," Doom said and Kurt looked up. He sounded like he was smiling behind his cold metal mask. "Not yet. Doom has another target, first. An old target, and a softer one."

"I am yours to command." By then the worlds tumbled out in a sloppy mess so he could get them over with. At first, he'd said them clearly, to avoid Doom hurting him any more, but Doom just wanted the show of respect.

"Are you not curious as to the revenge you will be dealing? It will be a night of glorious triumph."

"I will carry out all orders." How long ago had it been that he was laughing over movies and singing in a karaoke club? Sitting next to the people he loved and making quietly witty comments about passers-by? Now he spoke only in rote replies, and his voice was otherwise stilled.

"Reed Richards," said Doom, "is involved in a project with the American government. Its success will fund his research for a lifetime and Doom will be caused no end of trouble." 

"So, I’m to kill Reed Richards." _That’ll be tricky. The Fantastic Four is together all the time. Maybe they’ll catch me, then._ He doubted they’d shoot him, so he might just be captured and tortured by Doom's nanobots as punishment for failure. Although Reed Richards might be able to clear out his body if anyone on Earth could, Kurt still couldn’t feel hopeful.

"No. Doom wishes to have his project components brought here, so that Doom may study and improve upon them. They wish to power their nation’s hospitals and homes with this work? A childish distraction. Doom will power Latveria’s army."

Kurt inclined his head. He wondered how long the mission would take to run, and how many days afterward he’d become aware of his surroundings again. 

_I thought someone would rescue me_ , Kurt later thought as he watched the ground grow distant below his plane. _I thought they'd see the security footage. It's been a month. Maybe more. They have to have seen._

Maybe no one cared.

Maybe he was an acceptable loss.

Hollow inside, Kurt read the files before him and started memorizing the schematics. The blueprints were fresh in his mind when he stole onto Reed Richard's campus and headed for his prize. He'd stopped paying attention to the surroundings of anywhere he headed. He studied the facilities themselves, but as for knowing the city or even country around them, what did it matter? He wouldn't escape into them, and so his attention should only be spent upon the walls he needed to breach and the security he needed to avoid. 

But, he thought as he slipped through a narrow gap and waited for passing guards to move on, he knew where Reed Richards was based: New York. It wasn't a surprise to hear English again, spoken in that familiar accent. It hurt his heart, though. It made him feel.

He knew that he was approaching from the southern side of the facility, but not in what part of the city it was located. There were no skyscrapers in view, so that knocked off large areas from consideration. _Maybe it's Staten Island_ , he thought and the dull ache in his heart intensified. Maybe it was right by the facility where he and his friends had all come together to work as a team to save the world. Now he was alone, just like he'd been warned not to be by the dead woman who'd given him his swords.

Kurt was glad that he didn't know where he was, he thought bitterly as he checked for cameras, disabled a panel with a quick thrust of a blade, and began climbing a narrow access ladder. If he could look directly toward his family or friends and know that he was practically close enough to be heard if he shouted, it would be too much to bear. 

_This facility is like any other,_ Kurt thought as his hands and feet moved in a steady, practiced rhythm. It looked like the research campus in Japan, which hadn't been too dissimilar from one he'd assaulted in Brasilia. They blurred together, like all of his existence under Doom's control, and he just had to remind himself that this was no different from any place else. He didn't know how far away from his family he was. They didn't matter. He wouldn't get to see them. He'd been in the middle of a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility and still gotten away unnoticed, so he was, well, doomed. 

_Don't hope, don't feel,_ Kurt thought as he pulled himself up onto a narrow ledge and shimmied under a few spotlights and a lit sign, _and don't wonder where you are._ Once past the lights he stood, confident that no one would see him against the dark sky, and glanced at the wall.

With a deep, painful stab in his gut, Kurt staggered and nearly fell to his knees.

He knew where he was.

"He told me this was about Reed Richards," Kurt whispered, tears beading cold on his lashes, as he stared at the bright crimson of the Stark Industries logo. There was only one plant in New York City that served as a full Stark manufacturing campus. He was on Long Island, just a few scant miles from the bedroom he'd once called home. Somewhere on this property was his father's office. He'd see it all, and then he'd have to leave.

_Don't feel,_ Kurt told himself. He wiped angrily at his tears and tried to retreat inside himself, but it was no good. He wasn't Doom's agent when he was standing where he was, he was Kurt Hummel, and he couldn't force that away. 

"It's late," he told himself as he skimmed lightly across the snowy roof. "No one will be here." He had to be extra cautious about encountering anyone. Trapped inside his own heart like this, it would feel like _him_ pulling the trigger on any kills.

_Don't lie to yourself. You've made all these kills. You're just pretending otherwise._

Kurt's hand shook as he worked the panel open.

_Or was it someone else's hand that all that blood ran down onto when you shoved a sword through their chests?_

"This isn't fair," he whimpered as he descended into the guts of the fabrication facility.

_And you know how that feels, too. You know how a foot of cold steel feels inside you. You did that to innocent people. You did. You. You. You. You._

"Stop it," Kurt cried and froze in his descent. The spot where he'd been skewered burned as painfully as if the wound were still there, and his breathing came hard. Had anyone heard? He waited for a long beat, and only started moving again when he was sure that no one was coming.

He had to move quickly. Staying here too long would be agony worse than he'd already felt, and Kurt didn't know how long it would take him to get over having this scab picked off his heart. It was close to midnight in a factory with workers on regular shifts, he told himself as he moved a little faster than was prudent toward the R&D offices. They were home with their families, and so he could move in and out and return to his cold tower cell in Latveria.

Burt and Carole were home, probably in front of a roaring fire with the dogs sleeping quietly before them. Maybe Finn was visiting for Christmas, or... no, Kurt thought, his thoughts vague and unfocused. It was after Christmas, wasn't it? After New Year's, even? It was so hard to keep track of the world. Either way, maybe Finn was there with them, happy. Or maybe he was in Manhattan, with Rachel. Maybe they were looking after Puck. Puck.

Kurt thought of his cold bed in Latveria, and how lonely and frightened he was, and tears hit the linoleum. God, he wanted Puck there so bad. 

"Move," he told himself harshly. That scab on his heart was wholly gone and now he was tearing the wound open even wider. Idiotic. What was he doing?

Before he could feel anything more, Kurt approached the R&D doors, did a quick sweep behind him and through their shaded windows for any security, and slipped inside. _Move, move, move_ , Kurt thought as he found what he was looking for and began snapping pictures. Next he ran a three-dimensional scanner over the larger electrical components that Doom sought. The chips and batteries were harder to find, and he was supposed to bring them in by hand. Kurt began sorting through the room's cabinets and drawers with a ruthless efficiency.

The lights came on and a door at the far end of the room opened. Kurt brought up his gun on instinct.

Burt's cup of coffee hit the floor. It soaked his shoes, but he didn't react. His pale eyes were wide and his skin was sickly white under the overhead lights. "Kurt?" he croaked.

_I don't have to shoot him,_ Kurt thought, almost crying again with relief. _That's not in my orders._

Burt's lower lip trembled and he swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was even rougher. "Kurt? Is that... oh my god, you're alive. Kurt!"

"Stay back," Kurt said and put his other hand on his gun to steady it.

Burt inhaled sharply at the sound of Kurt's voice, then took one careful step forward. "Do you know who I am?"

"Stay back."

"I'm your dad, Kurt. We're going to fix whatever's going on, okay?" Burt said, soft and soothing. He sounded as comforting as he ever had, now that the first wave of shock had worn off and he had a job to do: calm down his son, who'd somehow appeared from beyond the grave, and make everything all right.

But things wouldn't be all right, especially not if Burt kept coming closer. Kurt's breathing grew heavier and he feared the second when his nanobots would abruptly decide that Burt was a threat to their mission. When he saw Burt's hand creeping toward a button on the table, klaxons sounded in Kurt's head. His words ripped out of him as a foolish scream, one that he never could have made if he'd thought any security was near. "Don't touch that alarm!"

Burt raised his hands. "What did they do to you?" he asked, agonized. "Kurt, where have you been?" He took another ill-advised step forward. "Kurt, is that... is that really you? You can put that down, son. It's me, I'm your dad, and I love you. We're going to go home—"

_"Dad, don't touch that alarm!"_ Kurt screamed, even louder than before, when Burt's hand snapped out. It stopped just above the button. "Dad, take your hand away, if you make this dangerous for me then I'll have to shoot you, please take your hand away, take it away, please take it away!"

Burt moved his hand. One fat tear fell. "Whatever's wrong," he said, "we can fix it. You can come home. Everything's going to be okay, Kurt, everything's going to be fine."

Sobbing, Kurt shoved his gun into its holster, grabbed the items he'd been told to retrieve, and bolted through the door before anyone came to investigate his screams. He couldn't press his luck and wind up in jeopardy, or he would wind up shooting his father. The memory of Burt's hand moving toward that alarm made him swallow back bile.

_"Kurt! God, please come back!"_

Kurt, invisible, pounded his way down the hallway and toward the icy dark outside.

_"Kurt!"_

The door opened and he was gone.

* * *

It took Burt a long time to move.

If he'd had any hope of catching Kurt, he would have run after him heedless of the gun in Kurt's hands. But he was older and in a lot worse shape than he'd been when he was on the football field, and his young son trained with some of the best agents in the world.

His son.

Who'd everyone told him was dead.

What was _wrong_ with Kurt? The question dammed the joy that would otherwise flood him. Kurt had looked agonized over whatever he was doing, but he also looked sick and worn out. He was paler than he'd ever been, except for dark circles under his eyes like he'd been punched. His cheeks were hollow and the hands clutching that pistol had looked angular and bony. Sick, starving, or somehow just _wrong_ : Burt didn't know what might be causing him to look as he did.

But his baby was alive. If he was alive, he could be rescued. He could be found. With the memories of Kurt's very first breaths in his mind—Burt didn't even care that they'd been implanted there—he kicked away the coffee cup he'd dropped and ran to the phone. "Carole? Are you there?" She didn't sound happy about being woken up, and Burt was too flustered and frustrated to give her a full explanation. She boggled at what he told her to do but Burt pressed on. "Tell the security guard at the north gate that you're visiting me, code Apollo Nine Two Three, okay? That'll let you in no matter what."

She groaned. "Burt, why...?"

"I'll tell you when you get here. Just hurry, there's not much time."

He met her at the north door. After Kurt's death Burt had often started going in to work to pursue projects until their completion, whatever hour that might be. When he was working, he didn't have to feel anything. Carole understood, even if he knew that she wished he'd be there for her more than he'd been, and she let him burn out the worst of his grief through an obsessive workload. 

After he became Kurt's dad, Burt wondered how he ever could have turned down Leroy Berry when he first showed up with that offer. It was the best, most important thing he'd ever done with his life. Then, five years later, someone showed up in a helicopter to take him in to the city and Carole told him that someone had killed his baby boy.

Five years. That was it. That was all they got. 

Until Kurt showed up and pointed a gun at him.

"Burt," Carole asked tiredly when she parked in the loading zone, not caring about rules in the middle of the night, "what's going on?"

"Did you bring everything?"

"Yes. But Burt...." Carole gently retrieved one of Kurt's pillows from the back seat. Kurt had left it there for when he visited home, although those visits happened less often than Finn's. Then, after he died, they closed the door to his bedroom and never opened it again. Carole going into it at Burt's request would have been the first time that door had moved since Thanksgiving. "Honey, I'm sure there are his hairs on there, and that you have a lot of fancy machines here, but cloning never ends well."

Burt stared at her for a beat, picturing the horror of a mindless Kurt _thing_ being grown in some laboratory, and then shook his head. "No, no. It's not that. It's... here, smell." He shoved the pillow against the dogs' faces.

Frankie and Lou pulled back, confused, and then stared at him. Their heads tilted.

Only adrenaline kept him from feeling as groggy as Carole, and it did little to make his thoughts more coherent. Burt, frowning, shoved the pillow at their two dogs again. "Smell! Come on!"

"Burt, what are you _doing?"_

"Find him," he pleaded with their pets. "Come on, find him. Carole, Kurt was here, and he ran off too fast for me to follow. But dogs, they can smell a person. They can track them, and I just...." He became suddenly aware of how little sleep he was running on, and that he'd hurried outside without grabbing his coat. The cold took over the job of keeping him alert. Burt blinked hard, then shivered. "We have to find him."

Finally, Carole woke up. "You saw Kurt."

"Yeah. It was him, Carole. I know they think he's dead, but he was right there in front of me." Burt swallowed. His throat felt raw. "He looked sick, Carole. He pointed a gun at me and talked about how he had to do things, and then he ran away. I don't... Carole?"

Her hand was on her ear and she was speaking into the headpiece she must have inserted by habit as she rolled out of bed. "Agent Hummel-Hudson, I've got a sighting. Agent Hummel. Yes, suspected deceased, targeted by Latveria. We've got visual confirmation and exchange of dialog. Is there any footage? Burt?"

Burt jolted and said, "Uh, probably. Yeah, there's gotta be some film in those labs."

"We've got footage, pull it remotely. We're on our way." Carole hesitated. "Affirmative."

"It was him, Carole," Burt said, teary-eyed, when she lowered her hand from her headpiece. "I swear it. He called me Dad."

"It could be him," Carole agreed, squeezing his upper arms. "But Burt, please don't get your hopes up."

"It was him, dammit!"

"What if somebody else cloned him?" she asked. "Burt, I want him back as much as you do, but you just have to prepare for that little sliver of a chance that you saw a... a fake."

"Then I want the clone," Burt said. "I don't care. He called me Dad, he's in there. I don't care how he came back. Carole, he... he looked so scared. So _scared._ " The emotions of the past month and a half bubbled out of him and Burt broke down in a sudden flood of tears. What was he supposed to feel? Shock, joy, fear? Should he focus more on what it had been like to see Kurt's face, or on Kurt's back as he ran away and once again left Burt's life? And what if Carole was right? It was all too much. No, Burt decided with a great, determined push. No, he wasn't giving in to Carole's concerns. That was Kurt. That was his son. And everything was going to be okay.

"Go lock up anything you need to," Carole told him. "It'll be a few minutes."

"We need to get on the road, Carole, if they're waiting for us—"

"I've handled it," she said firmly. "You've got a couple of minutes. Go lock up."

Burt did. He slammed locks into place with practiced rhythm, typed in security codes, and, with one lingering look at the spot where Kurt had stood, hurried out to rejoin his wife. "Why aren't we driving to your headquarters, if they're working with us?" 

As soon as he asked the question, its answer came. Burt grabbed his hat—he could get away with wearing those after hours, even if they were forbidden during the workday—and held it in place as a helicopter descended to land in the empty parking lot. A S.H.I.E.L.D. logo was on its side and a blue-suited agent hopped out of its door to help them in.

After an initial rush of joy, Burt looked with concern at Carole. She was as pale as he'd been when he saw Kurt, and sweat beaded faintly on her upper lip. She shuddered at the deep _thrum thrum thrum_ of the slowing blades. "I'm fine," Carole said when she saw him looking, and swallowed. "I agreed to this. It's the fastest way to get to headquarters."

"Are you—"

"I'm fine," she said tightly and he didn't question her again. It sounded like she was barely keeping herself under control, and she didn't need him chipping away at those walls. She walked toward the helicopter with the rigid precision of a soldier and pulled herself into it without looking back.

"Sir?" asked the other agent and, frowning, looked at Burt's feet. "And your... dogs?"

He scooped one girl up under each arm, thankful that they weren't yet full grown. Still, they squirmed. "Can I take them on board?"

"I... yes, I suppose so. We could swing by your house if you want to drop off your, um, pets, though?"

"My son needs me," Burt said and climbed into the helicopter while a squirming brown mass of fur barked protest. "We're not stopping." When they were set back on the deck plating and the doors were closed, Frankie and Lou seemed excited again, like this was some new adventure. "Let's go. Let's go!" 

"Burt, don't rush them, let them take off safely," Carole murmured. Her knuckles were white as she gripped her seat and guilt struck him. She'd nearly died in a helicopter crash. He couldn't imagine what she was going through, forcing herself to get on this one, or how much courage it must take.

She didn't move until they were on the helicarrier and the doors were open again. Burt clipped the offered leashes—cargo ties, really—to his dogs' collars and followed her into the bowels of the vessel. She clearly knew where she was going and it was tough for Burt to keep pace. Despite her lack of makeup, her uncombed hair, and the jogging suit she'd tiredly pulled on, Carole looked like someone on a mission and everyone they met gave her ample room to pass.

"It looks like him," said Nick Fury thoughtfully as they walked into his office. On a wall monitor, the video footage from the Stark Industries campus looped. 

"It is him," Burt insisted. "He called me Dad. He looked scared."

"I can see that," Fury said.

Carole stared at the monitor. Her hand crept up to her mouth as she listened to Kurt's voice.

"I'm glad you were up," Burt said to Fury, wanting to give Carole a bit to take in what he'd seen and be similarly convinced.

"I don't sleep much." Fury's eye flicked downward. "Dogs."

"Yeah, I... Carole brought by something that smelled like Kurt. I was going to have them track him."

Fury's brow furrowed. "Aren't those labrador retrievers? Not exactly bloodhounds."

"I haven't slept much recently," Burt said testily. It had made perfect sense at the time.

"What's wrong with him, sir?" Carole asked. She asked it more seriously than Burt had to himself, with more of a desire for a real answer. Even if it wasn't what she wanted to hear.

Fury hesitated, looked between them, and gave her a real answer. "There are more than a few possibilities. It's Doom, so that could be an android."

"He called me Dad!"

"I'm aware of that. He could have been slapped in stasis as soon as he was attacked, and maybe he never really died despite all that physical trauma. Maybe he was brainwashed. Magical or scientific resurrection; Doom's got access to both, and either could explain his behavior now. They could have implanted something in his mind, or used vampirism as a restoration method—"

"Vampirism?" Burt sputtered.

"It's Latveria," Carole said like that explained everything.

"In any case," Fury said, "we have a sighting and behavioral traces. We've got a target."

"A target," Carole repeated and paled. "Sir, what exactly are your intentions?"

Fury hesitated a beat. All the weight of his position seemed to be contained within him as he studied his underling, and Burt felt more awed by him than he ever had by his own boss. It didn't even matter that Frankie and Lou were sniffing his boots. "I know you resent me for what happened. You probably do, too," he added, nodding to Burt.

Carole didn't argue, nor did Burt.

"I've lost a lot of good agents for missions that had to be run. The only time I truly regret those decisions are when missions don't, in the end, seem vital. This one was. When need be, I commit and I carry through." Fury looked back at the monitor and his jaw set. "But that also applies when someone's sending out a distress signal, and I never leave a man behind."


	14. The Razors and the Dying Roses

"You were seen."

"I'm sorry," Kurt said against the floor of an empty basement in the Bronx, hoping that the nanobots wouldn't again attack his nerves. His throat ached from screaming. He knew it wasn't as bad as it could get, but it had still burned.

A Doombot took a few long, slow strides forward. They were all around the world, carrying out Doom's will in disposable packages, and now this one was under Doom's direct control as a stand-in for his rage. For a second Kurt wondered if Doom might kick him out of sheer frustration with those heavy metal boots, but no, that would damage his property. "You were seen and you did not kill that person."

"It was my dad," Kurt said helplessly, even though it was the wrong thing to say. A fresh jolt of pain ran through him and he curled up in a tight ball.

"You will be tracked, now," Doom said through his robot. "The element of surprise has vanished. Doom may only get one S.H.I.E.L.D. assault out of you, if that. It will need to happen too quickly for them to mount a counteroffensive. Is there anyone who could impact your behavior again? You will eliminate them before that can happen."

"Please just send me against S.H.I.E.L.D.," Kurt whispered. "Please, I'll do it, I'll do whatever you want."

"Yes. You will. And first you will do as Doom says on this, as well."

Tears beaded in Kurt's eyes as he realized he'd again be forced to kill someone he loved. "Why are you doing this to me? I'm doing everything that you want. Why do you hate me so much?"

"Doom does not hate you. Doom does not care about you any more than a carpenter cares about his hammer." 

Kurt thought he was broken and resigned before, but something deep inside of him still shattered.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. has a ground office. It is soft compared to their helicopter. Unprotected," said the Doombot and Kurt shuddered. That was where Carole worked. "Doom has developed small explosives that can destroy entire buildings if they are placed at the right, vulnerable spots within a structure." His eyes narrowed behind the mask. "Doom has identified those spots for you."

"My mom works there," Kurt whispered.

"It is fitting, is it not? For your last mission to be placing bombs against S.H.I.E.L.D.? It was your organization ruining Doom's plot with explosives that drove him to kill you, after all." The Doombot knelt. "You will carry out this plan and you will prepare it, first. Is there a chance that you would be found during this mission? Is there anyone who could affect your performance?"

"Yes." Kurt's mouth moved without him, like a foot moving when the knee was struck.

"Speak that name, so that Doom may send you to kill them... no matter if you _care_ about them. That is an order."

Kurt did.

* * *

"We're tracking all aircraft leaving for Europe," said Nick Fury as he watched sharp blue lines arc across a map of the Atlantic. "Commercial jets, private registered flights, and the ones their pilots don't want us to know about." His finger traced a few of them. "These look promising and we're going to pursue all of these leads."

"You're sure he's headed back?" Carole asked.

"Likely. We're keeping an eye on the local area, too, but Doom had to have him spying on that room for a reason, and the footage showed Agent Hummel stealing some of Stark and Richards' work. Doom's going to want to get that in his hands for study and use." 

Burt hated every single second of their discussion. They worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. and were trained military operatives with a mission to fulfill. He was a civilian with no more knowledge than it took to get him the right clearance for big projects, and above that, he was a dad. They seemed comfortable with watching Kurt fly back into the hands of the monster who'd taken him, which Burt found as hideous as the news that Kurt had died. "You have to rescue him," he finally said, his face red. 

"That's what we're doing, Burt," Carole said, frowning.

"But—"

"Do you honestly think I'm not going to try to rescue my own son?" Anger tightened her voice, made worse by her lack of sleep.

"No," Burt said and rubbed his eyes. He wanted to shout or hit something or storm back to the helicopter and try to rescue Kurt himself, but that didn't mean that Carole wasn't trying in her own way. _And it's better than anything you can do. You're pretty useless right now, Hummel._

Carole relaxed and turned her attention back to Fury. "Sir, should we spread the news? That Kurt's alive, I mean?"

Fury nodded. "As soon as we get an indication of where he went to, we'll get in touch with the right people."

"Why not just tell everyone now?" Burt demanded, his temper flaring again. "You know the Avengers, you've worked with those mutants. You've probably got the president on the line. Call them!"

Fury's eye was a dark, glowing coal when he turned it on Burt. "Sir, have you ever run a rescue mission?"

"I... no."

"Have you ever tried to get someone who's a hostage—in one way or another—out of the grips of one of the worst men on this planet?"

Hearing Kurt described that way made him sick. "No."

"Do you know what men like that do when they see a club swinging down on them with big, brute force? They kill their hostage before that strike lands, just so we can't get them back." Fury's jaw tightened. "Now, are you going to let me work on figuring out where we're going to make our _surgical_ strikes, so that maybe you can get your son home with his head still on his shoulders?"

"Burt, it won't be more than a few hours," Carole murmured as Burt went pale. "I know this is scary. I'm scared, too. But think about how... if nothing else, picture what Finn would do if we told him. There's no way we could stop him from tearing up the city looking, because he'd be sure that he could find him. And then Doom would know just how serious we are in the retrieval."

"So, when do we tell him?" Burt asked, hating to admit they were right.

"Very soon. Just remember, we're doing this to keep Kurt safe. Doom probably thinks that you're crying and shaking right now, and I really doubt that he thinks you're in Commander Fury's office. Let him underestimate our response."

"That overconfidence might be the only real bullet we have in this gun," Fury agreed. "I also feel like pointing out that you did bring two puppies into my office. I would not be pleased if they relieved themselves on my carpet."

"We're thousands of feet up," Burt said when he realized that he was being shooed away under the guise of walking their dogs. Maybe they should have stopped off at the house, after all.

"Then they can go on the carrier deck," Fury said, "or you can hold them over the side one at a time and send some munitions down on unsuspecting clubgoers, but it's not going to happen in here."

"Right," Burt said grimly and led out their dogs. It was a sick parody of normality as he followed the arrows on the wall to the exit: just a man walking his dogs, who were trotting along like everything around them was a theme park adventure. He was a normal guy, Burt told himself. He had a 401k, he was saving up for a bigger barbecue out back, he looked out for his family. He'd always love Kurt more than Finn, no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise as a dutiful father, because Kurt needed him more and he'd been there first. But Kurt and Carole's world was foreign and bewildering sometimes, and they left Burt overwhelmed. Wary. Scared.

He was scared now like he hadn't been since he'd been choppered out to Manhattan to meet his wife, to hear news that none of the pilots wanted to tell him.

Burt stared over the edge of the deck. The thrum of the massive engines was deafening, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the dogs pressing themselves against the firm surface below them. _Now they're scared, too_ , he thought as he looked at the scattering of lights in the city. It was before dawn, the darkest and dimmest time of day. He'd nearly worked through the night before calling for Carole. New York never really slept, but it had louder times and quieter times. They were in the quiet, now. Things were going to wake up.

_Where are you?_ Burt wondered, agonized, as he scanned the city and then looked at the eastern horizon where light would appear. Had Kurt left? Was he somewhere below? Were they really going to rescue him?

_Where are you?_

* * *

Puck had never been a morning person. Unless he had a pool to clean, his high school summers had seen him sleeping in until noon, and on the road he set his own schedule. Then he went to work for a receiving yard under full union regulations about when he had to show up and when he had to leave. Their hours might be okayed by the union, but he was pretty sure having to get up that early on every single weekday was a war crime or something. It took him months to settle in.

Now, it wasn't quite seven in the morning and he was in Midtown for a lecture on the man he was supposed to punch in the face. Amazingly, Puck had only yawned a few times. Maybe he really had acclimated.

"The Taskmaster is familiar with the actions and talents of everyone he's gone up against," lectured Steve Rogers as he pointed to a monitor. "By now, that includes the Avengers."

Beside Puck, Rachel sat primly on the edge of her seat and scribbled notes. Puck slouched on his chair and thought wistfully about greasy, fatty breakfast sandwiches from any fast food place nearby. 

The guy Steve was telling them about didn't look very intimidating. Really, Puck cared more about the new outfit they'd stuck him in than his and Rachel's assigned target for the day. Though he hated to admit it, it did look far more professional and slick than anything they'd ever worn in Ohio. Despite the color scheme, he neither looked like a road sign nor some stupid tiger costume. Black and orange had turned him back into Noah Puckerman, Champion.

He was actually kind of looking forward to using the name again. His time on the road had been rewarding.

"So when are we taking this guy on?" Puck asked before Steve could start a new topic. There had been an accident at his work with the overnight shift, which was why he had a weekday free. For the sake of OSHA compliance, no one was allowed near the place until they'd made sure a dangerous amount of mercury hadn't been dropped on the ground along with a full load of those twirly lightbulbs. "I've got today off, but if we don't get this handled then I'm gonna be busy from seven to four tomorrow."

Thankfully, Steve took the cue to wrap up. "The best offense here is surprise and neither of you have faced him. That makes you our best bet. Champion, thanks for helping us out. I feel a lot better sending her out with backup in the field."

Puck saluted Steve, who didn't seem to notice that he was being mocked. _Maybe I should have hit it a little harder._ He knew Captain America was the big time so far as heroes went, but the guy could get furious over something and still only reach a PG rating. Puck felt like he was trapped in Disney World, right in the middle of Main Street. He wanted to go hit things without fear that a dude dressed in a Mickey costume was about to come hug him.

As they walked out, Puck learned that Rachel, however, had noticed. "He is a hero who sacrifices everything to help others," Rachel said as they headed to the garage. "You should show him more respect."

"He's made out of white bread and American cheese!"

"He was a liberal and an artist growing up," Rachel sniffed as she strapped herself in, "and personally, I think the world could use a bit more of his old-fashioned manners."

"So," Puck asked as they pulled out onto the streets of Manhattan, "that Frost chick's still training your boyfriend? Has she been teaching him any moves?"

Her jaw set and she tapped the steering wheel as they drove. "We need to focus, Noah. I know what you're doing and it's not the time for one of your moods."

"If Finn reads your mind to figure out what you like," Puck continued, ignoring her, "and what your body's doing, d'ya think he still feels like a dude during it? Because that's just weird." She turned a fierce glare on him and, after a second's amusement, Puck pointed her back toward the road. "Sorry. This just feels sort of normal. You know... being a dick. I'm used to that."

"You've got a lot of practice with it, yes," Rachel said. 

"And I want things to be normal. Fine. I'll tone it down."

"Good." Rachel stayed quiet until she'd parked their car near Taskmaster's suspected location. 

"Do we split up?" Puck asked, looking around the street. A few passers-by looked interested in whatever might happen with two young heroes in costume, but neither of them were recognized for themselves. "You need to go on bigger missions," Puck said, pointing at the people who had no idea who Rachel was. "Otherwise, you're never going to be famous."

She smiled in that shameless way she had. "Why do you think Steve was worried about me going into the field? I've been pushing for it a lot, lately. I do think it's time that I became recognized for my talents."

"Should've guessed. So, do we split up?"

Rachel's certainty fell away. "I don't know. We're only doing a sweep right now, but when we find Taskmaster, we'll want each other's backup...."

True, but Puck thought it was more important to find the guy before they worried too much about the specifics of dealing with him. "You know, our comms do show where we are, and I run pretty fast."

That settled it. "All right, Noah. We'll split up and check a street at a time. Fair warning, he might try to attack us when we're looking at something else in our search. So even if you don't look prepared, you always need to _be_ prepared."

"You're talking to someone who only had himself for backup for two years, remember?" Puck raised an eyebrow. No one seemed to remember that he'd been forged into a hero through two years of constant work on the road, alone. "I'll be ready for anything."

"All right, then. Thank you for helping me," she said, smiling brightly. Rachel raised one hand above her head like she was striking a Sailor Moon pose (Puck's little sister liked Sailor Moon), and said, "Anthem is here to defend New York! I will be your guardian, citizens!"

"See, that's why everyone's pretending not to recognize you!" Puck yelled as she ran off after that embarrassing display. He jerked his chin at the crowd. "S'up, I'm Champion. I'm going to go kick some ass for you. You're welcome."

"You don't sound like a Champion," said a young boy dubiously. 

Puck lifted their car.

"That's pretty cool," the boy allowed and Puck gave him a thumbs-up before he jogged off. 

He didn't run at anything close to his top speed. He wanted to find this Taskmaster guy, and running by at a hundred miles an hour wouldn't let Puck pick him out of a crowd. The crowds mostly parted as he approached. Puck knew it wasn't out of courtesy; he was in a costume, and people in costumes were magnets for trouble. If a costumed hero was at one particular spot, there was a good chance that they didn't want to be.

After one block was done, Puck's communicator beeped. He pulled it out. "Yeah?"

"Noah? There's a call coming in from the Tower."

"Tell Cap that I'm busy, I don't have time to ride Space Mountain or the teacups." Rachel ignored him and put the call through anyway, and Puck looked at its screen impatiently. The image that appeared made him blink; that wasn't Steve Rogers' face. It was the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo, and the voice that spoke out of its black screen wasn't any of the Avengers', but Nick Fury's.

"Avengers, we have a developing situation. We have visual footage of one of our agents under a hostile nation's control. We've spent the last few hours analyzing traffic patterns and, contrary to our initial estimates, at this point we believe he's still in the city. There's a good chance that he'll strike somewhere here, and soon."

Puck frowned. Wow, that sounded big. Good thing they had him on call that day, then. They'd probably need his help. 

"It's time to bring in local forces to quell whatever trouble he might try to cause," Fury continued. "And this is not an elimination mission. He's in distress. You're to stop him from hurting anyone and then bring him in safely. I trust I can count on you for that."

"Of course, sir," said a woman's voice that Puck recognized as the hot redhead in the black catsuit. "Do we have any signs of any tech or weaponry that he'll be putting to use? If we know what he has, we might be able to narrow down the targets that he might want to use them on."

"The only things we saw were some electronics stolen from the Stark Industries plant last night."

Tony Stark came on the line next. "What? No one tells me anything. You're all fired. Including you, Laurence Fishburne."

Fury ignored him. "Tech isn't the threat right now. He's empowered, and Doom might have brought him back with even more powers beyond what he started with. Agent Hummel—"

"What?" Puck demanded, hearing Rachel nearly scream the same thing.

Fury paused. "Is this not a secure line? Who is that?"

"Anthem and Champion, sir," said Steve. "They're helping us out today."

"Kurt?" Puck asked, having to work very hand to not crush his communicator in his trembling grip. "Are you talking about Kurt Hummel?"

Fury's pause was shorter that time. "If they're in on this, then they're in on it. Yes, Agent Kurt Hummel. He's working for Doom and clearly not by choice. He was sighted several hours ago at Stark's facility."

"And you didn't tell me?" Puck shouted, heedless of the stares it earned him on the sidewalk. "Hours?" Kurt was alive and he hadn't known? "Where? What's happening?"

"We don't know," Fury said. "Our calculations _might_ not be accurate, and he could be back in Europe by now."

"Back in Europe?" Rachel repeated. "But... I don't understand...."

"How is he alive?" Puck asked.

"We don't know that, either. Keep on doing what you're doing and we'll feed you more intel as we get it. But we need you to be aware that things could get very ugly very quickly. Romanoff, I want you guarding the mayor just in case."

"Sir?"

"He had a gun pulled on the president a few months back, right in the Oval Office. He's a killing machine. Keep the mayor safe."

"Aye, sir."

Steve spoke up. "Sir, is there any concern that he might be in, well... Washington by now?"

"I was thinking the same thing, Captain, ever since I mentioned the Oval Office. Doom would certainly do that. Pick a team and get down there."

"Yes, sir."

_A killing machine?_ Puck thought numbly. Kurt hated killing. Having to kill a man once had left him quiet and shaken for weeks. Sure, maybe his powers were suited for it, but he didn't want to. He wanted to infiltrate bad guys' lairs and ruin plots and save people, not kill them. "You're wrong," Puck said out of fierce loyalty and love. "He's not a killing machine."

"He's under Doom's command and that makes him dangerous. Don't worry, we're on his side. We can tell that he doesn't want to be where he is, and we're going to get him home. But until such time as that occurs, we have to treat him as hostile and extremely dangerous."

"Do you think he's able to make any decisions on his own?" Rachel asked, her voice shrill. "If we know that... we know him, sir, Noah and I. We might be able to predict what he'd do."

Puck's eyes widened and he shut off his communicator without telling them goodbye.

If Kurt couldn't affect Doom's decisions, then it wouldn't hurt for him to do this. But if Kurt was in control at all, if Kurt was in there for even one tiny sliver, Puck knew exactly where he'd go. He ran west as quickly as his feet could move. When the crowds on the sidewalk grew too dense, Puck veered out into the streets and dodged between cars. Honks and shouts followed him. He ignored them all.

_If Doom's telling him what to do, Doom's got ahold of his brain. Kurt needs to fix his brain. He knows who can fix his brain. He'd go see him. He would. This'll work. It has to. It has to work._

Finn had already messed with Kurt's brain once to serve his own stupid purpose and he hadn't even had to work at it. It had been instinctive, because he could see his brother's brain like no one else's. Kurt knew that. It was why Finn had started fleeing their apartment whenever Puck came over, and why he found excuses to stay over with Rachel even though he hated waking up in a strange bed. Finn could fix whatever was wrong with Kurt's brain, or at least Kurt would think that he could, and so that's where Kurt had to be headed.

_What if you can't see him, though?_ Puck thought as he approached the bus terminal that marked the start of the office's neighborhood. When the buses became too thick on the road, he jumped on a car, then on top of a bus and kept running with great, risky leaps. _If he's under Doom's command, then maybe Doom will make him go invisible. Even if he's able to get over there to see Finn, would he be invisible until he did? Fuck, what if I've run right past him?_

Or he could be in Europe and Puck would never find him, but he refused to consider that. As soon as he leapt off a bus at an intersection, Puck looked wildly around for anyone using a smartphone. He'd run all over the city with that phone's camera in front of him, scanning the crowds with its tiny screen.

_No,_ Puck thought as shock hit him like one of those buses. _He wants to be seen._

Across the street, in an unfamiliar dark green and black uniform, was the love of Puck's whole stupid life. Kurt stared at him with huge, pale eyes. Puck felt like someone had ripped out his heart and put it up on a Times Square billboard for everyone to see. The world could watch each beat. How could this be happening out here at a lonely grey intersection, instead of somewhere safe and warm and only for them? If the impossible had happened and Kurt was back, why did he still look like a ghost? Why didn't the people around him treat him like the miracle he was?

"You're back," Puck said and took a shaky step forward. Kurt shook his head and Puck hesitated, but then it became too much and he started walking forward again. He had to touch Kurt, feel the heat of his body fighting back the biting cold of winter, and know that it was all real. 

"No, please!" Kurt shouted.

The words stopped Puck again, even as the sound of Kurt's voice made Puck want to run to hold him. "Is this really happening?" Puck asked. A car drove toward Puck, honking as it inched forward, and he rounded on the driver. "Not now!" he snarled as he slammed his hand against the bumper. It bent and the car stopped. The driver backed away as far as he could go and Puck was left alone in the intersection. When he looked back at Kurt, nothing had changed. Kurt was still a pale statue with hollow cheeks and a haunted expression.

"Please run," Kurt said, almost too softly to hear. "Please run away, please leave me—"

The words stabbed. "I'm not going to leave you," Puck said. "I don't do that. That's not who I am any more, I'm going to get you home and safe. Everything's going to be okay, you'll see. Kurt, it's going to be okay."

_"It's not okay!"_ Kurt screamed and the crowd began to thin out even more.

"What's going on?" Puck asked. His hands and feet were numb. Was he going into shock?

"Please. Run."

"Kurt—" Puck felt the pain before he registered the sound of the gun. His hand went to his side and came away wet and red, but it was only a grazing wound. He stared in shock at Kurt, who'd pulled that trigger and still held his pistol high.

Kurt cried openly, and jerked like he was being poked with live wires. "Run," he begged Puck. "I can't fight much longer."

"Fight what?" Puck asked, despite his pain and the threat of the gun pointed at him. Kurt was the one with the weapon, but he looked like he was staring at his own firing squad. "Kurt, _what's wrong?_ "

Kurt's arms cramped and his next shot nearly caught Puck in the head. If Kurt hadn't locked up like that, it would have killed him. "Please, run!" he gasped through whatever pain was wracking him. "Next time, I won't miss!"

"Kurt, you wouldn't really—"

"Yeah," Kurt said, hitting the word more intently than Puck had known was possible. His heart stuttered as he remembered joking about it back in Kurt's apartment, and how it meant 'I love you' all on its own. _"I will kill you, run!"_

The bleeding wound in his side throbbed. Kurt was alive, it was him saying "yeah," and yet Kurt meant that threat. Whatever was going on, Kurt was going to kill him if Puck didn't get out of range. All he had to do to get to safety, Puck thought in numb horror, was leave Kurt behind when his love had come back up out of the freaking ground, and abandon him to whatever pain had him trembling.

The worst part was, he had to do it.

If Kurt was alive, they could rescue him. They could save him. But Puck couldn't take a bullet to the chest, and the bleeding wound in his side told him that his new costume wasn't bulletproof. Someone could save Kurt, but it couldn't be him. Not so long as Kurt had that gun in his hands.

It was harder than anything he'd done in his life—harder than laying his heart bare and getting rejected, harder than two years alone on the road—but Puck met Kurt's eyes one last time, whispered his apologies, and ran in the other direction as fast as he could. More bullets chased him, but they went wide. He rounded a corner and put the safety of concrete and rebar between him and those guns. "Rachel!" Puck yelled into his communicator, ignoring the startled civilians staring at him in his bloody, torn costume. "Get backup, now!"

"Are you okay?"

_"Kurt's here! Track me!"_

A beat, and then Puck heard her speaking into something else and calling for backup from some of the biggest names in the world. Puck exhaled. He didn't have time for emotions yet; he was in pure reaction mode, and was likely destined to have his feelings vomit up out of him as soon as he could relax. _How the hell am I going to keep an eye on him if he's trying to shoot me whenever he sees me?_ Puck wondered. _And... and what's wrong with you?_

What was wrong with Kurt?

And who the _hell_ thought they were allowed to do whatever they'd done?

Fists balling, Puck felt his anger surge. "I don't give up," Puck said. "I don't. I stick around, I do the job, I'm there for people, I'm... yeah." He was not going to leave Kurt under the control of whatever Doom had done to him, and that was simply that. Puck ran back to the corner and peered around the edge.

Kurt was gone.

Puck sucked in a cold breath between his teeth, which made the wound in his side burn all the hotter. _If he's gone invisible, he might take a shot at me and I'd never see it coming._

It was obvious that Kurt didn't want to kill him, and it was just as obvious to Puck that he couldn't simply stand there and not try to help. A one-minute countdown was the compromise he settled upon. It was a long, painful minute where he could feel each low dull thud of his heart. As soon as it was done, he ran again.

* * *

_Puck left,_ Kurt thought and choked back a sob of relief. He'd expected Puck to stay there and fight to the last, which would have been when Kurt put a bullet through his heart. He'd fought his nanobots as hard as he could, and just like when he'd tried to walk out of his room, his muscles locked up and cramped. It was enough to miss from as far apart as they'd been standing, but any closer and he wouldn't have been able to avoid hitting Puck.

He didn't trust Puck to stay gone, though, and so he went invisible before he ran. Yes, he might give up the chance for Puck to pull off a one-in-a-million ambush and rescue, but that was less important than keeping Puck safe if he couldn't help himself from playing the hero. He was on an assassination mission, and then god only knew how many people he might hurt or kill on the S.H.I.E.L.D. building assault to follow. Kurt didn't want to add Puck's name to that list.

When Doom had asked if there was anyone who could hinder his missions, there was one name above all others. Though Doom had some basic telepathic blockers, Kurt knew that if he got within range of Finn, his brother would become aware of him. Finn would be able to drill into Kurt's brain, link them together, and be one hundred percent aware of where he was and what he was thinking. He might even be able to override Doom's orders and regain control of Kurt's body, although Kurt didn't look forward to the idea of being pulled between two competing puppetmasters.

And people knew that Finn had that connection to his brain. If Kurt was sent on the mission that Doom was promising to unleash, right there in New York, then Finn would be pulled from this very office and used to stop him. There was no question about it, especially when their mother was at risk.

So, when asked who he would kill, Kurt's mouth said "Finn" while his mind wept over the blood to come. There was no way around that simple order. He was going to have to do it.

With a deep breath, Kurt walked down the stairs to their office and covered the opening of their office door with an illusion. He couldn't mask the soft creaking it made, but Tina was talking and they were listening to her, not him. The sight of his friends and family nearly made Kurt choke back tears, but no sound came out of him. That would have ruined his mission and so he hadn't been able to make any noise.

Tina looked so happy. That hurt like another blade twisting in Kurt's chest. How could people look so happy when he'd been living under Doom's thumb? Didn't she cared that he'd been tortured? How could her voice be so light as she said, "I'm still working on the prophecies that I, um, _noticed_ at Doctor Strange's. I'm pretty sure I wrote them down right that night."

"Oh, good. Tina's pretty sure that she has the creepy prophecies written down right." Mercedes raised her eyebrows and looked entirely unimpressed.

"Creepy prophecies always end well," Finn nodded, then frowned and looked around the room.

Mike laughed. "Be right back, I'm going to go get more insurance."

"Haw haw. All I'm doing is seeing if I can find any historical events that'd they'd explain. You know... for fun, just to see if I can. Doctor Strange said they could be old." A beat. "Do you think the wolf eating the snake has anything to do with all those investigations about Rupert Murdoch? Because I found a ton of articles about that, and I think I could make it work. Maybe."

"I think it's a stretch." Finn scratched the back of his neck and his eyebrows dipped further. Kurt swallowed and went still. Finn surely thought he was still dead and he must have gotten used to Kurt's mind no longer brushing against his. But now he had to be aware of _something_ different. Kurt had seconds before Finn realized what he was feeling. With bile churning in his gut, he moved silently behind his twin brother and drew his sword.

Tina asked, "The Spanish-American War? The Boxer Rebellion? The Beatles versus the Beach Boys?" A beat, then, "Fine, I'll work on the next stupid prophecy." The phone rang and she picked it up. "Chang Cohen-Chang Agency, can I help you? Puck? Wait, what do you mean Kurt's—"

No. No, no, no. All the nanobots seemed to fire in his body at once and Kurt moved at their command. His hand lifted just as Finn's eyes widened and he turned, slack-jawed, to stare at the empty space where his brother stood.

Kurt's arm moved downward, but his thoughts moved faster. _The last time he died near me, it probably killed me. Will this kill me again?_ His eyes widened. _Yes yes yes it would it has to, it'd kill me... and my number one command is to stay alive!_

Having convinced himself enough to override his nanobots, Kurt pulled his blow just in time. Instead of taking off Finn's head with one quick, clean blow, Kurt struck him across the forehead with the hilt. It was still a hard blow, and blood gushed from Finn's torn scalp as he collapsed onto his desk, but it wasn't a fatal one. Kurt would pay for that with more pain, but that was better than the alternative. Kurt bolted for the door.

When he got there, he rebounded.

"No," Kurt whispered as he saw that Mercedes had put up a shield big enough to surround their entire office. The three conscious employees were wide-eyed and terrified, and Tina clutched the phone to her ear without moving, but Mercedes had still reacted on instinct. By then, they were familiar enough with their powers that using them was second nature. It was a full-strength shield and she was very good at making them.

To get out, he was going to have to kill her.

Kurt closed his eyes and trembled, fighting against the slow-building pain of resistance. _Drop the shield, Mercedes, drop the shield, drop it._ If she'd just let him go, everything would be fine. He could get away and no one would need to be hurt.

"Puck says that Kurt is alive and under Doctor Doom's control," Tina said, unnaturally calm. 

"Yeah, and I think we know where he is," Mike said, swallowing, and inched toward Finn to make sure that he was still breathing. There was so much blood, but Kurt knew that scalp wounds always looked bad. By then he knew exactly how to kill a person and that blow hadn't done the job.

"What is he?" Mercedes asked. Her eyes were very big and very white. She was so scared. So scared of _whatever_ he'd turned into. What an appropriate choice of words, Kurt thought bitterly. "Oh my... he's in here, I just put it up because I thought someone attacked from outside, he's in here!"

"Don't drop the shield!" Tina said, leaning forward. "Puck says that he doesn't want to hurt us. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s on its way, and if we can just keep him here until then, then he'll be okay."

"He's not going to be okay," Mercedes said, but didn't drop her shield. Kurt wanted to cry. She was right: he would never be okay after this. He also wanted to weep for her decision to keep up her shield. There wasn't much time left until he had to kill her, because now he knew that S.H.I.E.L.D. was coming. Kurt had been able to override his nanobots by convincing himself that chopping off Finn's head would short-circuit his own brain. No one else had that protection. They would die.

Quietly, Kurt began to inch around the perimeter of the office. Maybe she'd just blocked off the front door with a single wall of energy. Maybe there was an alley exit he could use. _Maybe she's not creating a spherical shield for the first time ever, you mean?_ he wondered hopelessly. There was no real chance that he wasn't trapped in there with them, but until he knew for sure, that was time that he didn't spend killing Mercedes. So long as he was in motion, that was time that they didn't know where to look and wouldn't try to approach him.

"It's him!" Tina screeched, pale. "He's right by the filing cabinets!"

Kurt jolted and stared at her. Wasn't he still invisible?

"He's looking at me! Now he's looking at his hand! Oh my god, it's really Kurt."

"You can't depend that it's _Kurt_ ," Mercedes said as she tried to stop the blood streaming from Finn's head. "Tina, you can't trust him, whatever he is."

How? Kurt was still invisible; he could see that his illusions were still on. How was Tina seeing him? She didn't have a camera or phone in front of her. _Oh,_ he thought in sinking dismay as his eyes found a high corner of the room. The security cameras they'd installed after Finn's near-murder, on the police's suggestion. Tina was watching its feed live, and so she knew exactly where he was.

That, Kurt thought with a choked sob as he drew his swords, meant that she was a threat, too. He vaulted over a desk and aimed his sword at Tina's chest. She froze and stared at her own death approaching her on the monitor.

Mike's foot snapped out nearly hard enough to break Kurt's wrist. His sword flew across the room, sent sailing from his numb, injured hand. Kurt pulled back, clutching his arm, and saw that Mike had one eye on another monitor. Mike couldn't see Kurt and Kurt's body wouldn't let him drop the illusions, so Mike was slowed by needing to watch that footage. But, Kurt thought as he backed into a corner, 'slow' for Mike was still a lot faster than he was.

"Should I let him go?" Mercedes asked. "Guys, I can just let him go, S.H.I.E.L.D.'ll be here soon and they can catch him—"

"No!" Tina said. "He's alive again and you're going to let him get taken by Doom again? Keep the shield up!" She snapped into the phone, "Yes! Who do you think I'm talking about?"

Finn groaned under his crimson mask, but didn't stir.

"Let me do this," Mike said with a practiced calm that didn't entirely hide his fear. "You guys handled the ghosts. Now it's my turn."

"We're looking at a ghost," Mercedes said miserably as she eyed the security feed on her monitor, but she kept the shield up.

As Kurt drew his other sword and began to size up Mike, he thought on how right Mercedes was. It hurt more than he'd known possible to hear her call him a _whatever_ , but her long-standing suspicion over resurrections was absolutely right. People came back wrong. 

_I am dangerous_ , he thought as he kicked a desk that would have slammed into Mike, if not for how Mike had bolted straight up just in time. _They shouldn't trust me,_ he thought as his sword carved deadly patterns in the air, and Mike countered the thrusts of the adamantium-edged blades with files that exploded into confetti. _I just hurt everyone,_ he thought as he drew Mike's attention with a fake illusion of himself, and then nearly carved his chest open from the other side. _Jack was supposed to live. I shot him. I'll kill everyone._

Mike moved away in time, though. _He's doing it,_ Kurt thought, slowly daring to hope. _He's holding me off until S.H.I.E.L.D. comes._ Kurt was able to convince himself that firing bullets inside their small office could catch him on the richochet, and so all Mike had to do was keep moving at a couple hundred miles per hour ahead of Kurt's sword. Mike Chang was a dancer. More than any other time in his life, he needed to not miss a single step in the dance they were doing on that day.

"Let me in!" shouted Puck's voice at the door and he hammered on Mercedes' shield.

"No," Kurt whispered. Didn't Puck know that he was supposed to stay away, far away? Why had he run after Kurt? Hadn't he listened?

"Kurt, help's almost here!" said Rachel. More terror ran through him. Didn't they know that getting near him was dangerous? Why was everyone coming that way instead of running in the opposite direction?

"We're helping him," Tina said grimly as she held a towel against Finn's head. It was soaked through. "It's not easy, but we're trying to keep him here."

"No!" Kurt choked out. "Run! Let me go, I'm going to hurt you!"

Hesitation bloomed in Mike's eyes. He kept moving in that smooth duck-spin-turn dance they were doing, but he split his attention to say, "That sounds like him, Mercedes." With his focus back on a monitor, he pitched desk supplies at Kurt as fast as his arm would move. Not all of them hit, and many of them rebounded painlessly. The stapler that caught Kurt on the ribcage would only bruise.

"Throw harder!" Kurt pleaded as he cut the legs from under a desk and watched the computer on it slide and crash free. His body wanted to remove any obstacles between them and take any ammunition away from Mike. He'd long lost enough stamina to fight back, even as much he had with the gun on the street. "Either let me go or really try to hurt me! Don't just fool around!"

"Don't you fucking dare hurt him!" bellowed Puck.

"I'm doing my best, dude," Mike muttered.

Sirens.

Kurt's body tensed further at the sound. S.H.I.E.L.D. was coming. His nanobots screamed at him to get away without capture, and every muscle focused on that task. Mike was a distraction, his body decided. He'd shown himself unwilling to kill Kurt. That meant that Mike could be ignored until the true threat to his mission was eliminated. Kurt, sobbing, tried to fight as he turned for Mercedes, but he was locked inside a speeding train.

"Mercedes!" Mike shouted when Kurt turned from him. "Shield yourself!"

_Will she?_ Kurt wondered with tears streaming as he vaulted over a fallen desk and aimed for Mercedes at the end of the long, narrow office. _Will she do it in time?_

Footsteps approached from behind him, so quickly that they could only be Mike's. 

_I'm open,_ Kurt thought, realizing that he'd foolishly turned his back on someone who was still watching him through those security cameras. Mike could beat him to Mercedes, and it would be easy for Mike to snap his neck or break his back before Kurt could stop him. "Do it," he pleaded.

But again, Mike pulled his punch. Kurt stumbled forward when Mike's foot hit the small of his back, but his body kept moving and twisted smoothly around. The monitor he'd slammed into crashed off the desk, and with a sinking feeling Kurt saw that there were no more screens in Mike's field of vision. Mike couldn't see Kurt coming, even though Mike's attack had once again turned him into the biggest assessed threat.

"Where is he?" Mike asked Tina desperately, just before Kurt's sword opened a grim red smile across his throat.

_"No!"_ Tina screamed and hurled herself across the room. Kurt spun to meet her, sobbing, and raised the sword stained with Mike's blood. Mike fell to his knees. His hands clutched his slit throat. With each beat of his heart, blood spurted through his fingers. 

"I'm sorry," Kurt whispered as he moved to kill Tina, but she held up her hands and his world became agony as bad as anything that Doom had promised. Kurt spasmed on the floor as his illusion dropped. Tina followed him to it, with her hands wrapped around his throat right where he'd opened Mike's. _She's draining me,_ Kurt thought vacantly as he felt himself began to ebb. He didn't stop screaming, but he'd gotten used to thinking in a hazy, detached state while his body operated around him. It was easy to understand how Tina was killing him. _She drains energy. She doesn't have to drain electricity to charge herself. She's draining me._

Tina howled. Kurt could see shadows moving around him. Was Mercedes checking on Mike? Maybe they could stop the bleeding. S.H.I.E.L.D. was coming. They could take Mike to a hospital.

_She's killing me before Doom even gets the chance,_ Kurt thought. _She's ruining his plans. Doom lost._ Despite himself, intermingled with his screams, laughter bubbled. It was an awful sound of someone glad to be dying, overlaid on the choking noises of the man whose throat he'd slit.

Everything began to fade. More shadows moved around him like ghosts and the world became very slow. _I'm dying again._ Kurt closed his eyes as his back spasmed again under Tina's hands. _I'm sorry. Everyone, I'm sorry._

There was a rush of movement and shouting, and suddenly the weight of Tina's body and the pain she was causing him were gone. It was too late. He was falling over an edge, and the world became darker and quieter than he'd known since he was stretched out on a stone slab. He was falling, falling, into a chasm that seemed to have no bottom, and with a rattling breath he let himself go.


	15. Beauty in the Breakdown

"I stopped a bad guy today," Brittany said. Her tongue peeked between her teeth and she bounced on her toes.

Santana glanced at the oven clock. "It's still asscrack-of-dawn early." Well, fine, it was after nine, but she was a college undergraduate. She didn't sign up for any classes before ten.

"I know. I went to do our Starbucks run and some total loser tried to steal everyone's money with his army of trained... alien monkeys or something, they were really creepy." Brittany's arms wrapped around Santana's waist. "Anyway. I focused really hard and all of a sudden his alien monkeys were in cages and the bottoms of his shoes were made of superglue."

"You have the weirdest powers," Santana said and kissed her. "I mean, you know how weird they are, right?"

"They're totally weird, and they're totally awesome." Brittany pulled back just enough for Santana to see her slight frown. "Then I thought about how NBC didn't tell you guys about that coffeeshop near your school. I'm glad I was able to help the people here."

Icewater ran through their relaxed exchange and Santana stepped away. "I'm still pissed off about that."

"At least another hero helped there, though. Right?" Brittany sipped her hot chocolate and handed Santana a peppermint mocha. Santana inhaled the holiday menu for as long as it was available, and Brittany was sure to run to the nearest store every morning so that she wouldn't miss the chance. It was sweet, it was thoughtful, and it still didn't distract Santana from the memories of hearing that people had been put in danger while she'd sat safely ignorant on campus.

"Yeah, they helped," Santana said. The mocha was too hot. Most people would need to wait for the roof of their mouth to grow back, but Santana was good with heat. She swallowed a huge gulp. "But it was just some pathetic wannabe who doesn't even have a home base or posters or anything."

"Like me?" Brittany asked. She didn't seem mad at the inadvertent insult, but the question was still pointed.

"You're... in the background of some of my posters," Santana said sheepishly. "Sorry. You're _good_ at what you do, Brit. You clean up all sorts of scary weirdos off the street. I'm sure those people would have been fine if you'd been there, but since you weren't... Quinn and I should have been."

"I clean up a lot of weirdos," Brittany agreed. That gave Santana another chance to bolt down some of her mocha. Still too hot.

"Artie hacked my iPhone," Santana said as she began gathering her bag. Every time she passed her mocha, she drank more of it. She was going to need a bathroom break ten minutes into class. "Since NBC isn't feeding me all of the news on where bad guys are, he's going to. Quinn, too. If anything goes down near where we are, we'll know it. He'll even map it for us."

"So you're just gonna take off from class or in the middle of a shoot?" Brittany asked. She didn't sound unhappy with the idea. That was unsurprising, given the complete freedom of the life she'd constructed for herself.

Santana shrugged. "It's more important, right?" It was, just like Brittany's pink hair being repeated across the country was more important than Santana's big salary or fancy clothes. And it was time to get her priorities in order.

Her phone rang and Santana tensed. While it was true that she really would choose heroism over classes, she hadn't expected to make that choice so very quickly. Her mind raced ahead. Quinn was already on campus, so they'd have to find a spot to meet up. She'd forgotten to put her costume on under her clothes. Should she change? Santana dug out her phone and relaxed when she saw the name and picture. It wasn't Artie. "Talk to me."

"Hey." Mercedes sounded grim, which was seldom a good sign. It was one thing to hear a depressed tone coming out of Rachel, because she could sound equally distraught over a building blowing up or ripping her costume and being forced into unbranded non-Anthem civilian wear until it was repaired. Mercedes did have some ridiculous topics that could make her spiral into sadness, but as far as Santana's friends went, her sounding so serious had a better-than-average chance of being legit. 

"Hey. What's up?"

"Wow. Yeah. I don't know how to even say this, or which I should say first. I'm kind of numb."

That certainly didn't put Santana's nerves at ease. "Maybe I wasn't clear. 'What's up' is short for 'what is up, and tell me right now or I will take a taxi over there and kick your ass.'"

"Kurt... Kurt's body came back to life and killed Mike."

Santana stared, frozen, at a few stray crumbs on the counter. Brittany took a worried step forward at her expression.

"I can't... I haven't said it out loud before, I don't know what to...." Mercedes hiccuped and snorted. "Anyway, I'm at the hospital with Tina. She's pretty destroyed. Like, I don't know if she's ever going to be okay. Ever. But I remembered you were mad that no one called you...."

"Go talk to Tina, yeah," Santana said. A piece of hair fell in front of her face and she brushed it away. When it fell back, she shoved it aside again so hard that it felt like she was trying to rip it from her scalp. How could Mercedes be saying this? Everything about it was impossible. Everything. "Bye."

Brittany's phone rang just as Santana moved to hang up, and although she was still frowning with concern at Santana, she answered. "Oh. Hi. Yeah, Santana's on her line." She glanced at the counter. The crumbs Santana had been staring at reformed themselves into the letter 'R.' If there were more of them, Santana guessed through her dizziness, they'd also spell out 'achel.' "Really?" Brittany said, her eyes alight with wonder. "He's okay?"

Whatever Rachel said sobered Brittany. "Wow. That's so mean."

"What?" Santana asked, but Brittany shook her head.

"Okay. Yeah, that makes sense. I'll tell her. Thanks. Give Puck a hug for me?" Brittany winced. "Oh. Maybe don't give him a hug if Kurt shot him."

Santana's breath caught. It was true, then. Evil zombie Kurt had come back to stalk Manhattan, and had started offing them left and right in the process. God, and Brittany had flown to Starbucks alone that morning. Just the thought of her being hurt made Santana's fingertips start to glow hot, and she had to focus upon not letting them burst into open flames.

"Yeah. Tell everyone we love them, okay? Especially him. That's so awful. Bye." Brittany smiled. "Yeah. Even you, no matter how annoying you are." A beat. "Come on, you have to admit you're annoying. But we all got empowered together and that makes us family, and family has to stick together even when things are so dark that you can't see a single thing and you keep bruising your legs on the table."

Santana looked sadly at her phone. Sometimes she couldn't understand Brittany's optimism or faith in people. How were they supposed to 'stick together' after this?

"Bye," Brittany said and ended the call. She turned to Santana and inhaled, but Santana was already speaking, as well. They both had information that hadn't been shared in their own call and it came out in a simultaneous mess of sound.

"Kurt came back as an evil zombie or something and he totally slaughtered Mike," Santana said and shuddered.

"Doctor Doom had control of Kurt and he made him do awful things," Brittany said, teary-eyed. "Poor Mike. How can... but he's _Mike._ "

Santana hesitated. She didn't want to argue, especially with the one real perfect person in her life, but she wanted to make sense of this unthinkable situation. "I don't think Kurt—whatever he is—was being forced to do anything, to listen to Mercedes," she said uncertainly. "They're pretty convinced that he, or that thing, was in the driver's seat."

"No," Brittany said, instantly and forcefully. "Kurt was being hurt and Doom _made_ him hurt people, too, and then Tina tried to kill him when nothing was his fault. I feel so bad for her, and oh my god, Mike. I don't know if I feel more sad or sick. But also... how could Kurt have been going through that for all this time and we didn't know? Everything's so awful."

"But Mike's still dead," Santana pointed out. Mike had been alive all that time. She'd just had dinner with him. In theory, it was easier to comprehend that he was gone than to try to accept that Kurt was back from the dead. She really, truly didn't want to argue. She just hoped that saying the words would somehow force them to make sense. It didn't. It was one thing to learn that a friend who worked in a dangerous job had died doing it. It was another thing entirely to be told that said friend had come back as a slave zombie who might or might not be evil, and, when he killed another friend, might or might not be to blame for that.

No, Mike Chang didn't seem dead, yet. No matter how many times Santana thought it, she knew in her heart that she could pick up her phone again and Mike would be on the other end if she called him. He was _Mike_ , after all. When some of them were having their huge ups and downs, he was always there, smiling and trying and getting along with everyone he met. Mike couldn't be dead. Who would kill him?

Or _what_ would kill him? How could Kurt be back? How could... "I don't know what to think," Santana said. She looked up. "Could you...?" She knew she'd told Brittany before not to try to bring back Kurt, but they'd learned about him after a week. This was the same morning. It might at least be possible.

Brittany cued in and shook her head. From the look in her eyes, she knew perfectly well that Santana was numbly denying what she'd once told Brittany. She hugged herself. Her oversized sweater compressed like a pillow. "I wouldn't even know what to focus on." She looked down. "I know it worked when I saved Finn, yeah, but since... since Kurt, I've tried to do time bubbles again to fix fights that went wrong. Lots of stuff can change if I don't know exactly what to do, or if I get distracted trying to change too many things. I stopped a bad guy with a do-over, once, but then I wound up causing this big wreck in an intersection."

"Yeah. I didn't think you could, I just... I needed to ask." Santana swallowed down another huge gulp of her drink. "Quinn's at school." Their new classes had just started. "I'll have to tell her there."

"I'll tell Artie."

"Thanks." Santana exhaled. "Does this feel real to you yet?"

"No." With a smooth hop, Brittany sat on the counter and dangled her legs over the edge. "Am I allowed to be happy that Kurt's back?"

"I don't know. I don't know if it's him. I don't... I don't know." Noticing the oven clock again, Santana swore. "I have to get to campus in time to grab Quinn before she goes into her next class. I want her to hear this from me."

Her phone rang again, and she answered it without checking who it was. "Yeah?"

"Santana, hi." It was Craig, another of her show's producers. He didn't contact them as much as Terry, as Craig mostly cared about their marketing and image management rather than the day-to-day operations. "We don't love the promo shots we did in the fall. Before we come back from reruns, we've decided to shoot some new ones to use."

"I... fine," Santana said. "I have to go."

"No, that's okay, we called the school. Don't worry about class. It's the first week, nothing happens in the first week of classes. Swing by the usual studio for an eleven shoot, okay?"

"I don't want to do a shoot today, Craig," Santana said.

"It won't take long."

"I don't—"

"It won't take long."

"One of my friends was just killed!" It finally, totally struck her, and Santana's eyes filled with tears.

He fell silent for a few breaths. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. Is it anyone we know?"

She pictured her producers as vultures picking over bones. "No." _No, it's no one you'd want to promote with his own Very Special episode._ "I'm not doing a shoot today, Craig. And I'm going to campus to tell Quinn, and she's not doing one, either. Bye," she said forcefully, and turned off her phone.

* * *

A steady mechanical beeping woke Kurt. For a long second he thought that he was somehow hearing nanobots inside his eardrums. Next he realized that the room smelled strongly of disinfectant and laundry detergent, which was unusual enough to rouse his curiosity. He blinked and, at first, his eyelashes stuck together. When he went to rub the sleep out of his eyes, his arms wouldn't move. As he was used to his body not cooperating, he didn't question that and turned his head to investigate where he was.

A hospital room, painted cream and olive and stained with years of worry. The beeping wasn't from his nanobots, but a heart monitor. Kurt followed the wire coming out of the machine and looked down at his chest, where someone had stuck the sensor under a hospital gown. He'd been transported there from... where? He remembered pain, a lot of pain, but not much else. Still, it looked like a civilian hospital, and that might mean that he'd actually gotten away from Doom. 

His gaze moved down to his non-functioning arms and Kurt smiled at what he saw. His body was still slow and unresponsive, so it was only a small grin, but he was the happiest he'd felt in as long as he could remember. His wrists were in padded restraints, which had to mean that he was under observation to make sure that he wasn't a threat. There could only be one reason for that.

He'd gotten away.

Kurt didn't know when or how he'd been rescued, or why he wasn't being tortured along every nerve for his failure, but he could hear the faint, familiar sound of the Jeopardy! theme through his wall. The voices in the hallway spoke in American accents, not Latverian ones. The writing on his IV bag was in English.

Feeling safe for the first time in weeks or months, and too tired to wonder how smart it was to think so, Kurt closed his eyes again and gave in to his exhaustion.

When he woke again, his wrists were still bound. He didn't mind. The padding inside them was soft and it was a smart plan to make sure that he couldn't hurt anyone. His mouth tasted foul, though. "Excuse me," he said when a nurse walked in, although it came out as more of a croak. "Could I get some water, please, and a toothbrush?"

"A toothbrush wouldn't do you much good with your wrists," she said and checked the connections on his sensors, "but I can bring a little spit cup of mouthwash."

It was enough for now. Still too tired to feel anything but a dull sense of relief, Kurt nodded. When she held the little paper cup to his lips, he dutifully sipped at the Listerine and swished it around. By the time he spat it back out and she threw it away, he was starting to feel human again. Before she left, she positioned a cup with a straw so that he could drink water whenever he liked. Kurt realized mid-drink that a catheter was in him, but he cared about that no more than he cared that he’d been undressed and put in a hospital gown. Not after what Doom had put him through.

_I’m in shock, I think,_ Kurt decided. It might be a bad sign that he was barely feeling anything when he’d spent so long in agony, but it was a good sign that he was self-aware enough to know it. Well, he could recover in safety, at least, wherever they were sending him to. Even if he was headed to a S.H.I.E.L.D. cell, he’d have more freedom than he did before. A prison of concrete walls was better than a prison of his own body.

"Excuse me," he said again the next time a nurse came in. "How long will I be under observation?"

Her eyebrows raised, like she hadn’t expected him to understand what was was going on.

"I know you’ll want to make sure that I’m not a threat any more," Kurt said, smiling. "That’s all right. But do you have any idea how long it might last?"

"They’re finishing up your tests, actually. They drew blood and did scans while you were asleep. They had a psychic scan you, too."

Kurt brightened. "My brother?" No, he knew as she shook her head. It had to be a professional. Probably that woman in white from the X-Men. Oh well, she was the best, and he wanted to be tested by the best to be safe. "I’ve been controlled by nanobots," he said, very precisely. "Doctor Doom injected me and they controlled my body. And when I didn’t cooperate in other ways, like when I wouldn't tell him something, then he’d just fire all my nerves until I did." Kurt looked down. "I... I learned to cooperate."

A shiver ran through him. Was he starting to remember the pain instead of just feeling relief? "And there was something with magic," Kurt continued. Dark, shadowed memories danced around the edge of his mind like old nightmares. He remembered flashes of being trapped in a crypt with death. "They should check for that," he added in a smaller voice.

"You’re very helpful," the nurse said, sounding sincere. "Just so you’re not worried, S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t looking to punish you. This is all just a precaution so you... so nothing happens."

Kurt nodded in a short, jerky motion. "When do I get to see anyone? Have you called my family? I have a boyfriend, I want to...." His mouth felt suddenly dry despite the dent he’d put in his water cup. "I shot him," Kurt remembered in a whisper. "Noah Puckerman, he was in a costume, he was working as a hero, he must have been. I shot him. I shot him in the side. I didn’t want to, I didn’t mean to, but Doom made me. You have to find him and see if he’s okay—"

The nurse, who’d been trying to speak over him, held up her hands and half-yelled, "He’s fine." As Kurt's heart pounded, she continued more quietly, "He’s fine. It was a grazing wound, if you can remember making it. He just needed some stitches and he’ll be good."

"Is he here?" Kurt asked. She seemed to know about Puck and had been authorized to share his status. Was he right there in that hospital?

"He’s here." She smiled. "And has been a pain in our rears all day, along with your dad. We just had to make sure that whatever Doom did to you wouldn’t do anything to them if they got too close."

Kurt swallowed hard. "Will it?" His eyes shadowed as he thought about what might be in his veins. "When they're running tests, they have to test my entire body. They can't just test a blood sample. They have to test _everything_ , because if there's even one nanobot left, it can multiply itself, and—" 

She held up her hand again and he went quiet. "They saw all those little destroyed bots in your bloodstream, so they knew what they were dealing with. I understand something's being done to address that possibility, although I don't know what. Just be patient and you'll be able to see people soon."

Kurt nodded. His earlier contentment had drained away like a punctured sandbag. "You're sure he's okay? I mean, I... I shot him."

"He's really okay. Just relax, it won't be too much longer." She smiled and left, and so that was apparently that.

Now the ceiling reminded him of staring at a blank stone room for weeks, dead. Kurt flexed his arms and balled his fists, but the restraints held. _I want to get out of here,_ he thought as fear began to drill through whatever emotional dam his shock had formed. _I'm trapped, I want to get out of here. Did they find something? What if they're not able to free me? I don't even remember half of what I did, but what if I'm going to jail after all?_ Kurt trembled. He could remember Commander Fury threatening him with jail, years ago, when they'd first gotten their powers and had tried assaulting a base. Though Kurt was better equipped to defend himself now than he had been at fifteen, he still wasn't suited for jail. A prison bigger than his own body didn't sound so appealing, after all.

Closing his eyes so that he wouldn't have to look at the ugly grid of the ceiling tiles, Kurt focused on breathing in and out. He might break down later, but he wasn't going to do it when he wouldn't even be able to wipe his nose if he started crying. _I am an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.,_ he harshly reminded himself. _I have saved more lives than I've even kept track of. I can handle this. You can handle this, Hummel. Breathe._

By the time his door opened again, Kurt's heart had stopped pounding and he no longer felt on the verge of tears. In the middle of wondering why he couldn't have been assigned to a superpowered partner so that he never would have been sent off on his own, he opened his eyes, expecting to see another nurse. Instead, the awed, teary faces of his family greeted him. "Hey," Burt said. It sounded halfway between crying and a prayer.

"Dad," Kurt said softly and smiled at all three of them. "You're here."

"So are you," Burt pointed out. Carole laid her hand against Burt's back and pushed him, and that seemed to break through any lingering shock. Burt flung himself forward and landed against Kurt hard enough to knock the air from Kurt's lungs, and hugged Kurt as best he could despite the restraints. "I love you, kiddo. I thought... it felt like the sun had gone out."

Sun, son. That was kind of funny, Kurt thought as his eyes blurred. Burt's bare head mostly filled his vision and, unable to hug his father back, he kissed his scalp. Burt shuddered, clutched tight for a long breath, and stepped back. "I, uh, I'm sure your mom and brother want to say hi, too."

"I'm so glad we got you home," Carole said as she knelt near one hand and clutched it tight. "Everything's okay now, sweetie. Everything's fine." Able to anticipate his concern, she added, "They've tested an awful lot of blood and everything's completely fried in there. And, just in case there are any active bots left, they're already working on something else." She let out a long, shaking sigh. "We love you and we're so glad you're safe."

Finn only smiled and let their parents keep the spots by Kurt's bed. He didn't need to get physically close to feel close, anyway; Kurt felt warmth wrap around his mind like a blanket. It was as comforting as the daze when he'd first woken up. As the sharpest edges of his lingering panic faded, Kurt became aware enough to notice the stitches on Finn's forehead.

"Your head," he said weakly and Finn turned so that he could see the full damage. A bloody line ran across his scalp, mostly under his hair, or where his hair would cover it once it regrew from being shaved nearly off. 

"It'll just be this little bit that you can see," Finn said, pointing at the two stitches on his forehead. "It'll make me look kind of badass. The rest'll be hidden. For being controlled by creepy evil genius robots, you had pretty good aim. And hey, at least it happened after my cast came off, so it's easier to wash around it. I dunno if I want to use TK to clean my bandages." The words might have sounded too light to an ignorant observer, but Finn's mind held more mingled awe, relief, and love than Kurt had ever felt from him. It centered Kurt as surely as he'd done for his brother's mind back in their last days in Ohio.

"I'm sorry," Kurt said, wincing. "I didn't realize I'd hurt anyone today besides Puck. Is he here? When do I get to see him?" 

Burt stroked his hair. Behind all the wonder of seeing his son again, there was a barely-there sheen of sadness. It was like he regretted that he wasn't enough all on his own. It faded quickly, though, and he smiled. "He's been pacing around this place all day. We can let him in now, sure."

Carole said something into a communicator. It seemed like only seconds until Kurt heard footsteps approaching, not at a run but as fast as a walk could possibly be. 

When Puck entered the doorway and saw Kurt, he froze. He was in a set of scrubs that must be looser and more comfortable over his stitches, and he somehow seemed to shrink within them. "Hey," he said in a shaky, thick voice.

"Hey," Kurt said tremulously. "I guess I'm back."

Carole and Finn had the good sense to get out of the way. Puck zipped to Kurt in a flash. His fingertips trailed Kurt's arm, then shoulder, and then the long curve of his neck up to his jawline. But when Puck leaned down to kiss him, Kurt turned away and Puck pulled back in surprise and obvious hurt.

"Not until I'm clear," Kurt murmured, fearful of any functioning nanobots that they hadn't yet found in him. "Just in case... saliva."

Puck didn't seem to understand that, but was willing to compromise. He leaned in and his warm breath ghosted across Kurt's face, soft and intimate and with all the safety that Kurt hadn't felt in far too long. Puck's mouth was very soft as it brushed a kiss across Kurt's cheekbone, just below his eye, and trailed a series of soft touches over to the end of his nose. "I'm never letting you go," Puck whispered as he threaded his fingers through Kurt's and squeezed gently. "Everything's going to be okay from now on. Okay?"

"Yeah," Kurt said and Puck looked up in surprise. Laughter bubbled out of them both, and it was all Kurt could do not to lean forward and try for a real kiss. From what people had told them about S.H.I.E.L.D.'s plans, they'd have time for that later. Puck's head then rested against Kurt's chest, above his heart. As Puck listened to Kurt's heartbeat, Kurt realized what seemed off about him. "You shaved your head."

Puck flipped over to the other ear, so that he could listen with his face turned toward Kurt's. Once Kurt would have been self-conscious about the arrangement; no one looked good seen from below, with their chin pressed against their throat. The days of being concerned with things like that between them were long, long gone. "I did it when I first found out about... when I heard." Puck's eyelashes were so long, and his eyes were so beautiful, even when he was sad. "Because you said you didn't like my mohawk."

"Oh," Kurt said and bit his lip hard so that he wouldn't cry. As his emotions were still churning, it was difficult. Once he was sure that he had himself under control, he said, "You didn't need to do that. It's you. If you want it, you should have it."

"That's why it's gone?" Burt asked. They both looked up where Burt stood opposite from Puck. He'd stayed there like some chaperone at prom, although he'd pushed back far enough to give them space, and now he was looking at Puck like Kurt had seldom seen.

"Uh huh. I mean, yes, sir." Puck ran a hand over his head. "It was shaved at the, um.... when we carried...." His eyes flicked to Kurt and Burt nodded. It seemed to make sense to the two of them, whatever they were talking about.

"I didn't notice," Burt admitted. "I was...."

"Yeah. Me, too." Puck managed a weak smile, went to re-position himself on Kurt, and winced.

Kurt winced, too, at seeing what had to be pain from the gunshot wound he'd given Puck. "Honey, be careful. And I'm so sorry."

"Sorry?" Burt repeated.

"I shot him earlier," Kurt said. "I couldn't control my body. It was all I could do to make my muscles spasm enough to mostly miss, but I still hit him. And I'm so, so—"

"Don't finish that sentence," Puck said and pressed three fingers to Kurt's mouth. "I don't want to hear you apologize to me after what you went through."

Kurt rolled his head away from the gag made by Puck's hand. "But—"

Puck leaned in close, and talked to him as soft and near as he did after sex. "Fine. You shot me. That's maybe a millionth as bad as what you've been through, and that's what we're going to focus on right now. If you want to apologize to me in a year, let's give this another try and maybe I'll listen to you then."

"Okay," Kurt relented. Something made him look up to his father. Burt was studying Puck thoughtfully, like he'd never seen him before. There was none of the lingering judgment that Kurt knew had once been implanted in Burt's memories to keep his son away from the boy he used to date. Carole simply smiled.

"Remind me what you do for a living?" Burt asked Puck.

"I work at the docks in Red Hook, in a receiving yard." Puck's fingers found Kurt's again. His thumb rubbed warm circles on the back of Kurt's hand, and then traced lines between his knuckles like he was walking old paths on familiar hills. "But if they don't give me time off to be with him, then I'll quit. I'll find a new job when Kurt's okay."

"But you love your job," Kurt said, distressed.

"I love you," Puck said. When Puck kissed Kurt between his eyes, Kurt's lids fluttered closed and he let out a long, unsteady breath. Afterward, Burt was studying Puck even more differently than before.

"Oh," Kurt remembered. There was a reason Finn had always ducked out of their apartment when Puck had stopped by, and unless things had changed post-Doom, Kurt was giving him a repeat of those emotional floods. "Are we...?"

"Yeah," Finn said, smiling lopsidedly despite the feelings that Kurt must be drilling into his mind. "But I'm just glad that I can feel anything again, you know?" He hesitated and there was something very strange in his voice when he continued. "Hey, uh, they gave me my own place in the building. It sounds like they're going to get your old apartment ready for you, if you want it."

"I can go home?" Kurt asked in a small voice. Sleep in his own bed, wear what he wanted, bathe whenever he chose? "Really?"

"Or you could come home with us for a few nights...." Burt began, but Finn shook his head and looked at Burt meaningfully. After a beat, Burt sighed and nodded. "No, you should go to your place. Finn's right."

Wondering just what it was that Finn had told Burt, Kurt then decided that it could wait until later. He'd just overcome death and enslavement, and from the sound of everything he would have to undergo some sort of treatment to make sure that his nanobots never returned. The thought made him blink, and he sat up as far as he could go with his restraints. "Oh. How did they get turned off? My nanobots?"

Finn and Puck exchanged a weighty glance. "It's complicated," Carole said to break the silence. "If you don't remember right now, then...."

"I've been working with Emma on getting memories back," Finn said. "And she taught me to let them come back slowly, so I don't get knocked over from them all coming back at once." He raised his eyebrows and smiled, like he hoped Kurt would pick up his meaning.

Kurt did. Whatever had happened was probably bad and it needed to come back in stages. "I'm good to wait, then," Kurt said and rotated his wrists. By then, he was quite sure that he wasn't about to lunge forward and attack someone. "When can I get these off?"

* * *

Though he knew it was foolish, Puck felt like he needed to stay still now that Kurt was outside the safety of the hospital. If Puck moved too suddenly, then the dream of Kurt being alive again would vanish like a started animal. Holding him would make things feel more real, but he didn't dare pull Kurt close to him when they were outside and vulnerable. Not yet. No, he needed to watch the world around them and be on his guard. He'd messed up so many times and ruined so many things. If he somehow ruined this miracle, that'd be the one thing that would break him for good.

"Rachel and Mercedes weren't there," Kurt said as a S.H.I.E.L.D. towncar drove the two of them to Kurt's building overlooking Central Park. Another towncar carved a safe path ahead of them, and a third one behind them carried Finn. Puck felt like he was the president being driven to a secured location where he'd be sworn in to office by an old guy in a robe. "Where were they? Are they okay?"

Puck smiled. After everything that he'd gone through, Kurt was really worried about someone else? Puck could just make out Kurt's distinct profile in the dim light. Every time he saw Kurt again, warm and breathing, it amazed him anew. He really hoped they got inside, where this fragile miracle felt once again protected, before he got all emotional and stupid. He really didn't want to be emotional and stupid in front of the driver. "They're fine. Once we knew for sure that you were going to be okay, and that they'd let you go tonight, Rachel got in her car."

Kurt's brow dipped in confusion.

"She drove to Rhode Island and she'll drive back tomorrow. I mean, if you're up for seeing people." Puck, despite the smooth tone he'd affected, was struck by a sudden fierce jealousy. No, Rachel and Blaine and even Finn shouldn't see Kurt tomorrow, never mind that Finn would just be an elevator ride away. They shouldn't see him until Puck had spent enough time to be convinced that Kurt was _real_ and _there_ and never, ever leaving again. This was his time. Their time. Other people could wait.

"Oh," Kurt said. His hand rubbed a circle around the other's wrist. He actually seemed unhappy at the idea of Rachel bringing Blaine, which none of them would have ever expected. Puck frowned. He might not want them to see Kurt, but he didn't know if he liked that Kurt didn't seem to want it. "And Mercedes?"

"She's uh... she's fine. She's busy."

"She's busy?" Kurt repeated in a quiet, injured tone.

Puck looked out the window until his expression was under control. He doubted that Kurt could make out any more of his features in the early winter dark than Puck had been able to, but there was no use in taking risks. "Yeah, some stuff went down, uh, lately. She's gotta deal with that. But I'm sure she'll see you soon."

Shivering and trying not to let Kurt notice, Puck flashed back to what he'd seen when he rushed to the agency's office. He'd been trapped at the bottom of the stairwell by Mercedes' immovable shield, unable to get in there and help. Kurt wasn't visible inside, but Finn's head was bleeding like Old Faithful and Puck had thought that Kurt had already killed him. Tina was staring at her computer like it held the secret to eternal life as desks tipped over and files exploded, and Mike was dancing with thin air.

Then Mike's throat opened and Tina's powers flared out at where Mike had stood. Kurt was in agony as his illusions dropped, making the most horrible noises that Puck had ever heard. When Beth had been strapped into the machine that would drain and kill her, it was awful, but she was only scared. Whatever was happening to Kurt in that office sounded like it wasn't even him any more.

Mercedes dropped her shields when she moved to help Mike, hoping she could somehow hold in the blood pouring from him, and Puck was in there in a flash. Tina was killing Kurt and he pushed her off before that could happen. She landed hard.

But it had still seemed too late. She hadn't just tortured Kurt, but she'd drained his own body's reserves to do it. He was still and pale, with blue-tinged lips, and he wasn't breathing. 

He'd picked up CPR on the road; he should have learned it back when he was working around pools, with his clients' kids coming near as he cleaned. Puck didn't hesitate before tilting Kurt's head back to clear his throat, opening his mouth, and blowing air into his lungs. As he worked Tina sobbed, but it was like radio static in his ears. If he was going to save Kurt, no one else could exist to distract him.

_Wake up,_ Puck had thought as he pulled back, frantic. _You just found me again, you can't leave me. Everyone leaves, you can't leave like this, wake up!_

Rachel prodded his bleeding gunshot wound, hard. Puck yelped, then realized she'd been shouting at him. "Stop!" Rachel said, sweaty with the stress of trying to get his attention. "Noah, you're not in control of yourself, you're going to break him!"

He looked down at where the heels of his palms were ready to start compressions. She was right. He was trying to power through everything, because that's what he did: he hit things hard, he ran fast, he jumped high. He helped out by trying harder and harder, but if she hadn't stopped him, he could have shattered Kurt's ribcage.

Rachel was able to push him aside, and she pressed two fingers to Kurt's throat for so long that Puck wanted to throw her off and try again, even if he did break ribs. That was better than just letting Kurt die in front of him. "He has a pulse," she said levelly. "It's not strong, but it's there."

But CPR needed compressions, Puck wanted to shout. Hell, he'd heard that it might be all you were supposed to do. If he had a pulse, why wasn't he reacting? What was wrong?

Rachel breathed deeply into Kurt, then pulled back. "I don't know what's going on in his body. You're right. It's not normal. I'm still breathing since he needs it. Check Finn." Then she leaned in and sealed her mouth to Kurt's again, and his chest rose and fell.

Puck, agonized, stumbled to his feet. He wanted to be the one to save Kurt, but he might have killed Kurt because he couldn't take enough time to see if compressions were really needed. And, hell, maybe if he'd gotten too frantic, he would have hurt Kurt simply from how hard he was breathing into him. He was like that, too: he hurt people and he screwed up. 

Tina sobbed as he walked past Mike's body, with Mercedes holding her. There was no question that Mike was gone, slumped like that in a great red puddle. It wasn't like Kurt balancing on the edge of life and death. Fortunately, Mercedes had a tight grip on Tina and didn't look ready to let her go if she tried to hurt Kurt again. Mercedes looked stunned, though, like she was waiting to wake up. Puck knew the feeling.

_Everything worked out with Kurt,_ Puck thought as their towncars slowed and stopped. Kurt had barely made it, but he pulled through. _But not Mike._

Kurt had slit his throat. And Kurt, from what they'd heard and what Finn had confirmed, didn't remember any of it.

The three men got out of the cars, accompanied by S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel. Remembering how a wheelchair had ferried Kurt to the hospital exit, Puck instantly snaked his arm around Kurt to support him. As he did, it felt like they were being escorted by prison guards. "Sir, you can go on ahead," one agent said to Finn.

_He might remember in stages,_ Finn thought quickly at Puck. _But we really don't want it to rip off all at once. Call me if it goes south._

Puck nodded.

"Hey, you're sure you're okay with me heading to my place?" Finn asked Kurt, smiling. He was putting on a good act. Puck knew that Finn likely couldn't step back into his old home without debilitating, damaging flashbacks, and so that was a dangerous offer to make.

"It's fine." Kurt leaned more of his weight against Puck. 

"Okay. Well... see you tomorrow," Finn said. For a second, thanks to that stitched cut on his head, Puck was struck by a resemblance to Frankenstein's monster. Abruptly, Finn lunged forward and enfolded Kurt in a hug that also caught Puck by proximity, and whispered something to his brother.

"I'm glad, too," Kurt said softly. "More than I can... I'm glad."

Finn met Puck's eyes as he pulled away. _He thinks he's happy, but he's not okay. It's going to hit hard when everything comes back. I can see it like... like stormclouds way off over the ocean. If you need me to come up...._

_What about that front hallway?_ Puck didn't want Finn to freak out because of his flashbacks and make Kurt worse in the process.

_If I really have to, I'll deal._

Well, hopefully he could. Puck nodded, and with another squeeze of his brother's shoulder, Finn vanished inside.

Agents accompanied the two of them up to Kurt's door. It looked just the same as the last time Puck had visited, before his life had fallen apart. Being in that building like nothing had ever happened made Puck's head swim. If not for the two agents still shadowing them—who clearly had excellent clearance levels, given that they'd passed security—it would have felt like coming there after a date. 

"Sir?" one of the agents asked Puck when Kurt had taken a slow step inside his home. "Until Commander Fury gives his okay, he's not to leave. We'll be monitoring things, so if you could please let him know so that he doesn't get a nasty surprise?"

"Sure." Puck knew that they still had some medical concerns with Kurt. God only knew how they were going to handle Mike.

Mike.

Fuck.

When Puck's emotions over Kurt died down enough to let him feel anything else, that was going to punch right through him and rip out his heart on the rebound.

The door sounded heavy behind him when he closed it. Puck hesitated at the entryway, and for a second it was covered in pictures like Finn had described in halting, horrified sentences. That had only happened once and then he never talked about it again. Puck didn't push him, then, even though some part of him wanted to know just what he would be taking revenge for. A bigger part of him had known that he didn't ever want to know the specifics of what had been done to Kurt, and besides, what sort of revenge could he get?

Now, all Puck cared about was that all the security holes had been patched. Someone had gotten into that apartment. It'd never happen again. It couldn't.

"The building is safe," Puck said as he watched Kurt trail his fingertips over the walls. They were bare, stripped of all the photographs Kurt had carefully picked out. The living room furniture had been replaced by slick, dark pieces that looked unwelcoming to Puck, who preferred his furniture to be along the 'upholstered and overstuffed' lines. Kurt seemed to like it, though, and that was all that mattered. He was doing well, considering everything. Just like the living room, which had once been turned into a disaster zone by Finn's out-of-control telekinesis, you couldn't tell by looking at Kurt that he'd gone through anything at all.

"Of course it's safe," Kurt said. "This wasn't where I...." He trailed off and his fingertips fell away from the wall.

When Kurt's knees buckled, Puck almost didn't catch him in time. "I'm fine," Kurt said. "I'm just tired. I'm... I'm so tired all of a sudden, I don't know why."

The hospital had put him in a wheelchair for a reason, Puck thought grimly. Tina had drained Kurt nearly to death and the doctors had told them how the dying nanobots had struggled to keep his body alive, right down to moving his heart for him. Even after nearly a full day in a hospital bed, how dumb was Puck to let Kurt walk around unsupported? There he was again: screwing things up already. "Bed?" he asked, moving to scoop Kurt up.

Kurt nodded and Puck picked him up like they were about to step over a threshold. The thought put a sad smile on his face. When he'd carried Kurt to bed before, it was full of desire and Kurt was practically climbing him. This was a gentle hold for someone who looked more broken by the second. "You should sleep," Puck agreed as they walked into the bedroom and he laid Kurt flat on his bed. "I'll be here, okay?"

"I'm so tired," Kurt repeated. His eyes scrunched closed, but tears trickled from their edges. 

Puck was instantly on the alert. Did he remember killing Mike? He hadn't expected it so quickly. Maybe he would need to call Finn, hallway be damned.

"I'm so tired," Kurt said again. It came out as a sob. "I forgot before, but now everything's coming back to me. What I did... what he made me do...."

Puck's gut clenched.

"He made me hurt people. I couldn't fight back. I tried." Kurt rolled onto his side and pulled his knees toward his chest. Puck wanted to reach out and hold him, but he looked fragile again and Kurt's words had put a fierce anger into Puck. Hearing about Doom _making_ Kurt do things had his fists ready to fly, but now he needed to be the rock. The comfort. A lot of things that he'd spent weeks proving that he wasn't very good at.

"I killed people," Kurt choked out. "I hunted them down and I killed them. They were good people and they hadn't done anything wrong. I killed them."

Screw it. Puck knew how to fix things with his body, and that's what he needed to do then. He laid down next to Kurt and pulled him close. When Kurt molded against him, he knew he'd done the right thing and he stayed quiet and still as Kurt clung to him for an anchor.

"I killed Jack. And I picked him." Kurt burrowed his face against Puck's shoulder. Puck was grateful for that, as he had no idea who 'Jack' was and why Kurt cared about him more than anyone else. His expression had to show his confusion. "I loved him. I'm sorry, you probably don't want to hear that—"

"Say whatever you need to say," Puck reassured him. Right, Jack. The agent boyfriend. Kurt's hair felt strange as he stroked it. It was free of products but still coarser than he was used to feeling. _Doctor Doom probably doesn't do leave-in conditioners._ Kurt needed to do his hour-long skin care regiment. He needed to use four kinds of lotion as he watched black and white movies on TV. He needed to eat food made from a fancy organic chicken brand that gave its birds recess outside, and drink wine from France or California, and eat overpriced pastries with names Puck couldn't pronounce. He needed to do all the things that Puck had used to make fun of but had made Kurt happy. 

After a breath, like he couldn't believe Puck really wanted to hear Kurt talk about the man he'd been with before him, Kurt continued softly, "I loved him. It didn't last long, but I did. And he made me think that I was a grownup who could have a normal life. He didn't die when we broke up. He didn't get shot." A sob ripped out of him. "And then I picked him when I had to name someone, and I killed him. I shot him. You all get shot. All of you."

Puck had forgotten the wound in his side. It had been treated, he'd sucked down painkillers, and he had the far more important matter of Kurt's recovery ahead of him. But there was no denying that he'd gotten shot thanks to an encounter with Kurt, and suddenly Kurt not wanting Rachel to make that drive back from Rhode Island made a lot more sense. Three boyfriends. Two near-deaths. One tombstone.

"I hurt so many people," Kurt sobbed. "I couldn't stop. My body just did things, he kept making me... and I was so scared... alone... I couldn't even jump out of my window...."

Every whimpering gasp was another bullet, and each one found Puck's heart. He was crying, too, in silent, shaking drops that ran down his cheeks and soaked the pillow below.

"Don't let him take me again," Kurt cried in a tiny, helpless whimper.

"I won't," Puck promised. "I swear to you, I won't."

Kurt pulled back enough to see Puck's face. His eyes were red with tears and they looked at Puck's mouth. But when Puck moved to kiss him, Kurt pulled back.

"Please," Puck whispered. "Please, let me help you." If he was able to help anyone in his life, if he was able to be the hero, please let him do it now. Please.

With each passing second, more bricks fell in Kurt's walls. They were tall and strong but they'd rotted inside, and now that he felt safe and secure he was letting whatever demons were inside out to play. The shadows behind Kurt's eyes frightened Puck, because he couldn't even imagine what sort of terrors were creating them. "No, I can't. If even one of these things is still alive inside of me, they'll all grow back—"

"They're going to fix you."

"I was in hell." Kurt said it so baldly that Puck needed a second to understand that he really meant the words. "Before he brought me back, hell. Afterward, hell. I don't want to go back." And if I'm still infected with these things, Puck heard, I'd take you with me.

"You're not going back," Puck said. "But if you did, people would come and find you. They'd rescue you." He cupped Kurt's chin. Kurt didn't pull back and Puck kissed him, long and slow and full of wonder that he was able to do it again. "And if you got sent straight to the bottom of hell," Puck added, "then I'd go, too. Because you wouldn't go alone. Not ever again."

"I was so alone," Kurt said brokenly.

"And that's not happening ever again," Puck promised him before he caught Kurt's mouth again and felt him collapse into helpless, desperate cries, where relief battled exhaustion and fear all at once. 

Eventually Kurt fell asleep. Puck's leg started to go numb from its awkward position, but he didn't dare move. Kurt needed to sleep for a day solid after everything he'd went through. Worse than that, more pain was on the way. If Puck had to blindfold Finn to get him through that front hallway, he would. Because the second Kurt even started to remember Mike, Puck thought hopelessly, things would somehow get even worse.

* * *

Someone had to arrive at the hospital before they could legally be declared dead.

Tina had learned all sorts of things that day. She'd learned how dangerous her powers could be when fully unleashed, and how much blood was inside a human body. She'd learned what the love of her life looked like as he died. And she'd learned that, despite the EMTs refusing to give up on Mike as they loaded him into the ambulance, it was all a formality. They didn't expect him to make it. They just didn't have the authority to call for a time of death on their own.

"We were going to order from the good pizza place this Friday," Sam said, stunned. "We'd been saving up."

"I was going to ask him to move in with me and then marry me," Tina said. "I win."

"I'm so sorry," Mercedes said. She'd said it a lot. Half the times Tina wanted to crawl into her arms and sob until it stopped hurting, if it ever did. The other half, she wanted to slap Mercedes until she stopped saying stupid words that didn't fix anything.

"Ms. Cohen-Chang?" asked a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent as he approached, and Tina stood.

"Hi. Yeah. Call me Tina."

The agent nodded. "Tina. I'm sorry for your loss."

_This wasn't a loss,_ Tina thought. _This was an ambush. An abduction._ "Thank you," she said.

"Are you sure that we can't get you X-rayed?"

They'd been asking her to get tested for hours, ever since Puck had shoved her off Kurt so hard that she rolled and hit one of the toppled desks. Her ribs were a mass of bruises that she hadn't yet dared to look at. If only Mercedes hadn't put up that shield. If only they'd let Kurt run. If only. "No. Nothing's broken."

The agent looked at her sympathetically. "You have to be in a lot of pain."

Tina turned a dark, angry stare on him. Really? Pain? He didn't say. 

Her glare seemed to cue him in to his idiotic remark. "With your... ribs, I mean. A doctor could prescribe you some better painkillers, at least, until things heal up."

"Why does S.H.I.E.L.D. care?" Tina asked coldly. "You got back the only person you care about."

Mercedes had spent nearly a month and a half praying that Kurt would find the right path after death and that he'd be taken care of. She'd been the right one all along. Tina never should have hoped for Kurt to come back. He'd come back wrong, and now that thing wearing his face was under S.H.I.E.L.D. protection while she'd learned that her boyfriend was viewed as an acceptable loss.

The agent hesitated, clearly not sure if he should share this, and then said, "Agent Hummel is very traumatized. He was under the direct control of Doctor Doom, and you should really direct any anger toward that madman. Not your friend."

"Agent Hummel," Tina said, "laughed after he killed Mike." She could still hear horrible, gasping laughter as she took out her fury on Kurt's walking corpse. Her eyes flashed. "I pulled up our security feed remotely. We can do that, you know. We pulled together the money for the _nice_ security package after someone was going to shoot Finn." With a look that dared the agent to leave, she pulled her laptop out of her bag and brought up the video she'd downloaded.

The Kurt thing slipped into the office, wearing a uniform that she didn't recognize but must belong to Doctor Doom. After maneuvering himself behind Finn, Kurt hesitated and ultimately pulled his punch. He'd chosen who would live or die that morning. 

Finn got to live, even though no supervillain on earth would discount a strong psychic as a threat, even as raw as he was.

Mike, with his straightforward, non-threatening powers, died.

It was that simple. No one could tell Tina that Doctor Doom would rather see Mike dead than Finn, but she knew someone who wouldn't kill his own blood but apparently thought anyone else was nothing more than stock at a slaughterhouse. And, from the rumors she'd picked up, that someone was in a different hospital, protected, and eventually headed back for work at S.H.I.E.L.D.

Tina had never known it was possible to feel that much rage or agony. She was caught within it like the deep, dark eye of a hurricane. She was very calm, and her voice was level, but she knew the howling winds could sweep back in at any second. "Mercedes was right," Tina said, each word crisp and hard. "People can come back wrong. He did."

"Miss, I really don't think—"

_"He laughed!"_ Tina shouted and the clerk at the desk glared at her. Tina glared back, daring her to say anything, and the woman pulled away. "He laughed," she repeated, low and quiet like a threat. "And if he comes near me again, I'm going to send him back to where he should be."

The agent's jaw worked silently for a few seconds, and then he nodded. "All right, then. I'll inform headquarters of your feelings and make sure that Agent Hummel is kept away from you. We try not to provoke avoidable situations."

Tina sat back down without bidding farewell and stared rigidly at the opposite wall like one of the decade-old medical posters hung there would bring some sense to the world. Mercedes stroked her shoulder, but she was no less tense. "I can't believe this is happening," Tina said. "I can't... I just want to wake up. This is a bad dream. Or I'm in hell. Maybe Mike didn't die. Maybe Kurt killed me and I'm the dead one, and this is my hell."

"Sweetie, I'm so sorry," Mercedes whispered. She hugged Tina, and Sam drew in from Tina's other side, but Tina's eyes never moved from the far wall. "You're not dead. You're hurting and scared, and that's okay. We all are. We're all going to be here for each other, okay? I promise, you are not alone right now. I called everyone. I bet Quinn'll buy delivery food for us for the next month so we don't even have to think about it, and... and it's going to be hard, and we're going to cry a lot, but it'll be okay."

"You called Santana," Sam said. "Do you think Brittany could... I mean, you told me what you did for Finn...?"

Mercedes shook her head slowly. "If she could, this wouldn't have been the way that Kurt came back."

"Oh." Sam's shoulders slumped. "I guess you're right. I didn't think about that."

"I think it has to be really close, so she doesn't have to turn back much time," Mercedes continued, "or it has to be a change that she knows really well. She can't just change something big and vague." The words were soothing, like she wanted her boyfriend to feel like he'd made a good suggestion that had just encountered a few impossible hitches. Tina hated them for both being alive and happy and together.

As Tina sat and stewed, her own words came back to her. _I'm in hell. In hell. Hell. Hell. Hell._

_Oh._

Tina stood, adjusted her bracelet, and walked toward the door.

"Hey, where are you going?" Mercedes asked. "I think the doctors still have more to tell us...."

"They can tell you," Tina said, and it was a close thing that she said anything before she left the waiting room. Mercedes and Sam gawked after her as the doors swung shut, but Tina ignored them.

She had so many things to take care of if she was going to fix this.


	16. Find You

Tina was going to ask Mike to move in with her. She was going to propose.

Now he was dead in a hospital room that they wouldn't let her enter, and her memories were filled with blood.

As she walked down the cold sidewalk and ignored the passing taxis, she could feel Mike's sweat-slick skin and his warmth length filling and stretching her. She could feel his hands sliding through the damp hair between her legs, then sliding further down until his long, agile fingers gently worked her open. She could feel the weight of him in her mouth, the feel of his arms around her, the soft touch of his lips against her mouth and eyelids and throat. And with each new memory, his throat tore open and he died on top of her in a red waterfall.

That should have made her throw up. She should be screaming as she felt the subway car rumble below her feet, but she didn't even know which station she'd entered. Then she was on the sidewalks again, and she didn't remember getting off the train.

She was so calm, Tina acknowledged as she approached her destination. But, now that she knew that she could fix this, just like Finn had popped back to life and just like Kurt's body was walking around, why be sad? She couldn't afford to be sad. Sadness would only be a distraction from the job at hand.

The heavy metal door knocker of the Sanctum Sanctorum cracked like a gunshot when she announced herself. "Hi," Tina told the man at Doctor Strange's door when it opened. "I came by here a few weeks ago, to borrow a book. Can I come in?"

"No."

"It won't take long—"

"Doctor Strange is not currently in the dimension. No visitors are allowed. Please leave."

She forced a smile. "It's important."

"Many people come here, and their reasons are all important. Please leave."

Tina was left staring at the door as he shut it. Her fists balled and her jaw clenched. _No. Don't get angry. You have a job to do._

 _Fine_ , she thought as she pounded down the steps. NYU students moved out of her way as she passed, even though her powers were safely contained. She looked dangerous enough despite that to clear a pathway ahead of her. _I'll find another way._

* * *

"Excuse me," Tina said, just before closing time. That time, she'd taken a taxi.

The librarian looked up. "Yes, can I help you?"

She smiled. It felt like putting on armor. "Do you have any special sections? That might have really rare books?"

Doctor Strange had told her that magical books had filtered into the public library system. She intended to test that theory. Walking into the main branch of the New York Public Library had indeed felt a bit like finding some source of potential mystical power. Its stone face looked like a temple, with the lion carvings outside as its ancient guardians. 

"The Rare Book Division keeps rare books, yes." The librarian adjusted her glasses. "What are you hoping to see? For most of the collection, they'll need to schedule an appointment with you or your institution. And some aren't available to the public, I'm afraid."

"I'm looking for...." Tina trailed off. She had no idea where to start. She couldn't very well ask for spellbooks; she'd sound ridiculous. "I'm taking a class on the occult. For school."

"Are you looking for the history of specific groups, or...?"

"Um." This had seemed so much easier, walking in. She needed to save Mike, the library might have the books to do it, and that was simply that. Why was this so hard? "I'm looking for the books they might read. You know, and think were really real? For the occult... stuff?"

The librarian kept smiling, but with a long-suffering tolerance that said she'd uncovered the truth. "Miss, our rare books collections won't teach you how to be Harry Potter."

 _I already used actual magic to open up actual dimensional walls for actual ghosts, you bitch,_ Tina thought, but bit her tongue. How could this woman act like Tina was being _funny_ when she was trying to save Mike? "No, that's not what I meant. It's for a serious project."

"My apologies," the librarian said smoothly. "Do you have a title or author you're interested in pulling?"

What were the titles of spellbooks? Who wrote them? Where would she even start looking? "No," Tina said helplessly.

"Well," the librarian said, "it's nearly closing time, so they wouldn't be taking any new appointments, anyway. Why don't you go home and check your notes for your class? Then, once you have whatever information your professor gave you, you can come back here and find just the right book."

And if she didn't have that specific information, she was free to go fuck herself for wasting the library's time with silly games, Tina heard. "Right," she said hollowly. "I'll do that. Um. Are your rare books in your online catalog?" Maybe she could browse until she saw something that looked likely....

"Not the rarest ones, no."

Of course. Tina had no doubts that anything with usable spells would fall into that 'rarest' category, and they were all totally off-limits to her. Some people might have the occult knowledge to start a search, but she hadn't the faintest idea of where to look. Doctor Strange's library had everything that she needed, right down to knowing the color of those books' covers, but she couldn't get inside. 

She walked back outside with heavy, steady steps. Mike was dead, and now she didn't know how she was going to fix that. 

Tina stared out at the lamplit fog of Manhattan's skyline and broke out into giant, wracking sobs that the people passing by her ignored. 

Mike's hands. Mike's mouth. Mike's heart. Mike. The man she'd wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

He was actually dead.

With each new cry as her emotions burst loose, his throat tore open anew in her mind. She wasn't sure how she got home. Maybe she'd taken the subway again, or maybe she'd called a taxi. But Mercedes was there with her arms open, and Tina fell into them like her best friend could somehow fix what she couldn't.

All Mercedes could do was stroke her hair. Because Mike was dead.

* * *

Sam Evans remembered the strangest things. He'd forgotten his locker combinations on a regular basis, and if he didn't find ways to work new facts into interesting stories, studying for school had been a real pain. But he remembered grammatical structures for fictional languages. He knew the unused lyrics to the original Star Trek's theme song. And, as Tina told them how she hadn't been given access to the rare library books, something else began to come to mind.

It took a while to percolate. He'd stayed overnight at Mercedes and Tina's apartment. The two of them had slept with Tina between them, like parents who might be able to fight off bad dreams. But they couldn't, of course, and every time he woke up she was crying softly. 

_Mike is dead,_ he'd thought as he stared at the ceiling and listened to Tina's quiet pain. _Kurt came back and killed him. Am I sad or scared? I don't know._ He was both, really, but he didn't know which he felt more strongly. Mostly, he felt a tight wormy feeling in his stomach. There was going to be another funeral. He'd be a pallbearer again, just like he'd carried an empty casket for the guy who'd killed this one's owner. Was that their life, now? Just being caught up in a cycle of death and destruction and failed dreams?

No. He refused to believe it. That sucked. They were young, they were friends, and some of them were even superheroes. The world should be at their feet. Instead, they were all being forced to their knees.

 _This isn't right_ , Sam thought as he'd stared at the ceiling and listened to Tina whimper softly in her sleep. _This isn't how things were supposed to work._

That sad belief took up much of his mental energy the next morning. The rest was taken by having to find his way to work out of an apartment he rarely commuted from. Their investigative agency was closed for Mercedes and Tina, of course, but Sam still had to go in to the Bugle if he wanted to keep the job that paid for his expensive New York home. _I don't have a roommate any more,_ Sam thought somewhat hysterically as he went through his inbox at the office. His hair was a rat's nest and he was in the same clothes as the day before. They smelled like the hospital. _I won't be able to pay for my apartment, anyway._

"You doing okay, there?" Peter Parker asked as he came in with a new set of pictures to show to their eternally displeased boss.

Sam ran his hands through his hair. "No."

"You want to talk about it?" 

"I don't know." His hands scrubbed his face. "Not right this second." He knew that much, at least.

"Okay," Peter said uncertainly. "Well, I'll go get yelled at by Jameson, and maybe you'll want to talk about things by then?"

"Maybe, sure. Thanks." Sam glanced at Peter as he left, and the little tickling in his brain finally fell into something recognizable. Tina. It was about what Tina had said. If she wanted to get the books to save Mike, she needed a title or author to give to the librarians. None of them knew where to even start with looking for such books, though.

Now he did. Thanks to his obsessive superhero and villain-obsessed brain, he suddenly knew where Tina could find a book of magic. But did he want to ask? Mercedes and Sam had disagreed on the ethics of superheroic resurrection over their months together, although they'd avoided the debate ever since Kurt had died. For Sam, heroes coming back to life was simply part of their larger-than-life mythos. He'd never really stopped to consider what it meant in the even bigger picture of souls and prayer. Mercedes had argued that a person dead was a person gone. After what had happened in the office yesterday, well... Sam couldn't really argue against that.

After all, Tina had told him how Kurt laughed. Laughed right after he killed Mike. Who was dead.

A shudder ran through Sam, and he didn't know if he was ready to be sick or start crying. He did know, though, that Tina must feel a million times worse than he did. Maybe this was a bad idea, but he didn't think it was right to make the decision for her. If he could tell her where to find a book, he owed her that. Maybe it wasn't even the right book. Maybe it wouldn't have any of the right information. But it'd be an author and title, at least, and she'd know where to start looking.

When Peter came out of Jameson's office, Sam tried to steel himself. He needed to sound focused, because he'd never get a "yes" answer to his question unless he sounded confident.

The intention and the execution didn't quite match up, though. "Seriously," Peter asked after Sam stared at him mutely. "You okay?"

No, Sam hadn't intended to wipe away that tear. But there it came. "Sorry. I just... man, this isn't how things were supposed to work."

Peter frowned, but said nothing.

"It's funny, you know," Sam said. "Back in Ohio, I heard that my friends were superheroes and I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Like, I wanted to get powers, too. I wanted to be around them. I wanted to see everything right up close. There was another guy—you don't know him—who wanted to be more careful, but I thought he was just being a stick in the mud."

"Oh. Um. Did something happen to one of your friends?" Peter guessed. "I mean... another one of your friends?" he added, and winced. "Sorry. I forgot about that funeral you had to go to a while back."

"Yeah. And this one isn't hitting me as hard, because that first time... well, it was the first time. Someone died. Someone had a funeral. I'd never gone through that before. Ever." Sam laughed bitterly and began shredding the wrapper left over from his bagel. "I used to think everything was so simple. And it still feels like it should be, but it's like things just aren't quite working out, and I'm not sure how we're all supposed to fix them."

"I've been there," Peter said bitterly, but pulled quickly back. "Sorry, I'm not trying to make it sound like a competition."

Sam took it only as the sympathy it was intended. "Anyway. I’m pretty torn up over everything, because...." The words died in his throat. Peter made a career out of photographing superheroes—mostly Spider-Man—but he didn’t live as closely connected to that world as Sam did. How was Sam supposed to say that the first friend's death had been reversed, but as an evil killing machine who’d killed Sam’s roommate and been ferried off for healing while Mike died on the floor? No one here would understand all that, and so he went for the most basic description possible. "Mike was my roommate. And maybe my best friend by now. Yeah, I guess he was."

"Oh my god," Peter said. He pulled out a chair and straddled it. "I’m so sorry, man. Look, we’ll cover for you if you need to get away from work today. Seriously."

"Thanks." Sam let out a bitter laugh. He still needed to address Tina’s book, but now he found that he wanted to talk. "It’s funny, you know. Once I got captured, so I’d be bait for my friends. I was totally terrified of being Gwen Stacy. Now, it turns out that they were the ones who needed to worry."

"What?" Peter croaked.

"Well, it looked like I was going to die," Sam said. "To prove a point to my friends, or something." Peter had gone very still. _Maybe he doesn’t know that story and is trying to figure out what I’m talking about?_ "Have you ever heard of her? I think that Spidey was in love with her, but she got kidnapped and he accidentally killed her trying to—"

"I know who Gwen Stacy is," Peter said, surprisingly harsh.

Sam blinked. "Oh. Okay."

"I... I have to go get some fresh air," Peter said, and stood.

Sam winced. _What just happened?_ "Hey, there’s a picture you took that I need to check. Do you mind if—"

"Everything’s on my hard drive, knock yourself out," Peter said without looking back. He disappeared down the hallway leading to the elevator.

Sam frowned after him and sighed. Everyone was unhappy and he didn’t see ways to fix it for anyone. Superhero stories were a lot less fun when they were actually living them. Sadly, Sam turned around Peter’s laptop and opened it. There was a folder on the desktop clearly labeled as Bugle pictures, but it had over four thousand files inside. _He must not throw away anything._ That improved the chances of still having the picture he needed, but it would make it a lot harder to find.

When had Brittany fought that total loser who called himself the Eternal King of Super Hell, or whatever it was? Sam could still remember the library sticker on his 'spellbook.' He’d made fun of that at first, but with what Tina had told them about what lurked in the library system, it might actually be legit. The discussion had been before Kurt had died, Sam knew that much, and he tailored his hunt accordingly.

Photography, Sam soon learned, involved taking a ton of pictures and having most of them come out terribly. Peter’s work was filled with blurry cars and pedestrians walking into frame just as the camera went off. Maybe one photo out of every thirty was even worth showing to Jameson, and he might buy one out of ten. The hunt continued.

There were tons of pictures of Spider-Man, of course. That was Peter’s bread and butter at the paper and his files were filled accordingly. However it was that Peter had managed to befriend the superhero, he’d gotten some amazing close-ups out of the relationship. Sam would be a little jealous if not for how two friends’ deaths had taken the shine off the whole idea of superheroes, and he kept clicking past the Spider-Man pictures without much thought.

So deep was his haze that it took him a few seconds to realize what he’d just seen. Sam frowned, clicked backward, and studied the photograph to make sure that he wasn’t making things up.

Spider-Man was adjusting his mask after a fight, in an off-kilter picture that looked like the camera had fallen over at some crazy angle.

And Peter’s face was halfway visible.

 _Oh,_ Sam thought in shock. Well. Okay. Yeah. Peter Parker was Spider-Man. That explained the premium access and why Peter focused on him more than any other hero, didn’t it? 

He’d just learned Spider-Man’s secret identity.

 _Should I be happy about this?_ Sam wondered, but instantly knew the answer. Thanks to knowing the identity of the Awesomes and being close to them, Sam had been kidnapped, thrown in a basement cell, and shot. He didn't want to know what he might suffer if anyone got the idea that he actually knew who _Spider-Man_ was. With numb fingers, he jotted down a note, and then proceeded to hunt for the picture of Brittany's pathetic nerdy foe. 

Once he'd found the picture, thankfully in a high enough resolution to make out the book's information, Sam closed the laptop, stood, and took the elevator down to the lobby. "Hey," he said when he found Peter on the sidewalk, red-eyed and... oh. Shit. 

_I just talked to Spider-Man about Gwen Stacy. I just said her death was his fault. Oh my god. Smooth move, Evans._

"Hey," Peter said.

"Uh." Sam struggled for words, and then jammed his hand in his pocket and pulled out the note. "You need to delete this picture. I wrote down the filename. I thought about doing it for you, but it's your stuff."

"Why?"

After a look up and down the sidewalk, Sam murmured, "Because you were pulling on your mask."

Peter froze.

"It's cool. Don't worry about it." Sam hitched up one side of his shirt to reveal a faded but brutal scar running from his ribcage to his hip. It was where the doctors had opened him up to save his life after he'd served as the Awesomes' bait. He'd spent a long time in the hospital after that night. "I already went through this once. I'm really cool if no one ever, ever knows that I know this about you. Okay?"

"I. Um."

Sam tucked his shirt back in. "Thanks for the other picture. I don't know if I can get the info I need from it or not, but it's a start." As Peter was still rigid and wide-eyed, Sam clapped him on the shoulder. "Seriously, I'm not going to tell anyone. And I'm super sorry for what I said about... her. But will you cover for me? I guess I'd like to get out of the office, after all, and get this to Tina."

Peter nodded with such fervor that he seemed to be taking it as a blackmail attempt. Whatever worked, Sam supposed. "Sure. I'll go delete that picture right now."

"And check for any others," Sam suggested as Peter darted back inside. His eyes roamed up the building and he realized that Peter could have swung up there on his webs, instead.

_Yeah, this really isn't how I imagined my life._

* * *

Kurt was still sleeping when Puck got up to call work. He'd been asleep for a long time, with no indication of stirring. Puck was careful not to disturb him. Although Kurt's brow sometimes dipped and his mouth thinned with tension, he still looked happier asleep than he had awake. Were the smiles at the hospital Kurt's real feelings, or the tears he'd shed in bed? Puck wanted to keep a smile on Kurt's face while he could, even in sleep, just in case it was the latter.

"Hey," Puck said quietly, inside what had once been's Finn windowless bedroom. "It's Puckerman."

Javier, his co-worker, snorted. "Yeah, I noticed. Where the hell are you? The foreman's pissed, your shift started an hour ago."

"Yeah, I forgot."

"You forgot? Man, one day off for clean-up and—"

"Kurt's back."

The man paused. "Wait, your guy? But, uh, you said he was...."

Puck didn't want to get into it. "Yeah, uh, the agency screwed up. He's a soldier, right? Well, they thought he was, um... but he wasn't. Yeah."

"Well, shit, man! Congrats!"

"Thanks. But he's." Puck's voice caught. "He's kind of messed up from everything that happened on the mission, and that's more important than me coming in. So if you can tell the boss, great. If he's an asshole about it, then I quit."

Javier hesitated, and Puck knew why. Though a good man to work under, their boss was hard-headed about showing up for shifts and only taking the sick time and vacation they'd officially accumulated. Workers who ran into personal issues got no sympathy from him, because he had a shipping yard to run. Excuses didn't move pallets. "I'll try."

"Thanks," Puck said, and meant it. He remembered thinking that everyone at that place judged his relationship like it wasn't real. The fact that this guy was sticking up for him, even if things didn't ultimately work out, gave him some little spot of hope. He'd found something better than expected there, so why couldn't he find it in Kurt's recovery, too? "Seriously, thanks."

"Sure. Good luck."

Smiling, Puck quietly retrieved soap and took it to the second bathroom. With its full shower, Puck wasn't sure how they'd ever believed that the apartment was really designed for one person with a home office. Whatever the list of reasons the government once had for keeping Finn there, Puck was glad that he wasn't there now. Now, Puck's precious studio space in Brooklyn was like some hell to which he never wanted to return; he'd move in all his belongings that day if he could. Hell, he'd propose to Kurt if he didn't know that it was just his sense of relief taking away all logic. It might not make sense, but right at that second Puck would do anything that left him feeling like Kurt would be there forever with him, and only him. Puck had been with other people. Being with anyone but Kurt wasn't what he wanted. He hadn't really questioned it before Kurt's death, but he knew it for certain now.

Besides, Finn was only a few floors away: close enough to hurry up if they ran into any problems, but far enough that Puck didn't feel like he was being chaperoned. Of course, maybe he could use some backup. Puck's hands slowed as he scrubbed his stubble-covered scalp, and with a frown he gently cleaned the stitches in his side. Noah Puckerman screwed up. That was the most reliable thing about him. Did he really want to be there alone with Kurt, as vulnerable as he was? Shit. Wanting Finn Hudson around for backup wasn't a good sign for _anyone_ , but Finn did have that connection with his brother's brain. Rachel was good on the hugging and crying front, but as far as Puck knew, she was still out of the city. 

But even so, he didn't want to call Finn up unless things got bad, and until he called Finn upstairs, it was just him. No matter that he'd run off and fucked other people like it was going out of style, or that he'd started throwing bad guys around so hard that they bled on police station floors. _Admit it,_ Puck thought as he settled back into bed with a few pieces of toast. _You're not good at this kind of stuff. But if you screw it up, dude, we're never going to forgive ourselves. Got it?_

Kurt looked so damn tired even as he slept. He'd probably dropped ten pounds that he didn't really have to lose; the angles of his face were too sharp. He was as limp against the mattress as a cat in a sunbeam, except for his hands. They flexed in time with the fluttering of his eyelids. Sometimes his fingernails curled against the sheets. Sometimes it looked like he was holding a weapon. 

Puck considered him as he swallowed the last of his toast, then set the plate on the nightstand near the windows. Very quietly, he moved the other nightstand into Kurt's oversized closet, and then inched the huge bed toward the open wall. Eventually the bed was flush with the wall and Kurt was nearly pressed up against it. Perfect. Puck climbed back into bed. A wall was behind Kurt and he was on the other side, and so it was like a bunker around Kurt that would keep him safe.

Content in what he'd at least tried to do, Puck slung his arm around Kurt and went back to sleep.

"You moved the bed," he eventually heard.

Puck blinked awake. Kurt was studying the wall right next to him. "No one's getting near you," Puck said simply.

Kurt studied it a few beats longer, felt Puck's arm where it curled around him, and then pressed against Puck and let out a shuddering sigh.

"I can't believe you're back," Puck finally said after breathing in the scent of him. Kurt smelled wrong. He hoped that'd fix itself now that he was back home and had those fucking bots out of him.

"It doesn't feel like I am." Kurt laid there for a few long breaths, then sat up. "Is all my bathroom stuff here?"

"I don't know," Puck said. "They got this place ready really quickly." The soap he'd found was one thing, but Puck had no idea of the full inventory that should be in those drawers to satisfy Kurt's toiletries obsession. S.H.I.E.L.D. might well have just shoved the bare necessities back into the apartment in time for Kurt's arrival. Puck wouldn't know the difference either way.

"Is there enough for a shower?"

Puck nodded. He'd seen shampoo and some other bottles around it, at least.

Kurt pushed himself out of bed. "Can you make me something? I'm hungry."

Though he'd been picturing holding Kurt as the hot water washed away what stress that it could, Puck nodded again. He wasn't anything like a good cook, but he could at least pull together more toast and a couple of scrambled eggs. "Sure."

It took Puck a while to remember how all the dials worked on Kurt's gas stove. Finding the eggs was another time-waster; S.H.I.E.L.D. had put together a surprisingly large stock of food in Kurt's fridge. Though eggs and toast was a quick meal to actually cook, it wasn't ready until Kurt was out of the shower and Puck heard the steady hum of his hair dryer. He managed to smile as he spread jam on the toast. It had to be a good sign that Kurt was actually doing his hair, right?

As the hairdryer hummed on and on, Puck frowned in the direction of the door. That he would support and embrace Kurt under the water had just been so obvious to him. Their bodies had been together before in showers; now, it felt like their hearts should be. But instead, he'd been sent out to make breakfast and Kurt was behind a closed door. 

"Damn it," Puck muttered as he swallowed and realized he'd absently taken a bite from Kurt's cooling toast. 

"What?" Kurt asked as he finally walked out wearing a simple outfit of black and grey. Puck wanted to gorge Kurt on ice cream and pizza until he got the weight back. As he looked at Kurt in that soft grey sweater, he wondered just how much its folds were hiding. 

"I accidentally ate some of your food. Sorry." Yep. He was always a screw-up.

"How do you accidentally eat food?" Kurt asked with a smile, and Puck relaxed. Claiming the plates, Kurt nibbled delicately on his meal, even as Puck wanted him to inhale it. Puck watched him eat each bite: the arch of his wrist as he lifted a forkful of eggs, the movement of his jaw, the play of the muscles in his throat. He'd never stared at Kurt eating like that before, but he'd never needed to reassure himself that Kurt was simply _alive_ before.

"Do you want coffee?" Puck asked. "I'll make coffee." He moved to start some before Kurt answered, but froze in confusion in front of the coffeemaker. He'd only ever ordered coffee from diners or takeout windows, or grabbed the free stuff in the employee break room. There was some kind of frilly filter that he was supposed to use, right?

"I'll do it," Kurt said, having come up beside him. Brow wrinkled in concentration, Puck watched each step and noted it for the future: the paper filter, the amount of grounds that it held, where the water went into a reservoir. "I haven't been able to do what I've wanted for a long time," Kurt said quietly as the coffeemaker sputtered into action. "Even eating something."

"What did he make you do?" Puck asked before he could help himself.

Kurt stared at the coffeemaker as it filled. "Do what he said. Stay alive. Hurt people." He looked down. "The first thing was... I killed the man who killed...."

"Who killed who?"

"Me."

"Oh," Puck said, paling. 

"I can't go back there," Kurt said. His hands tightened around the edge of the counter. "I've barely even started to understand everything that happened. I don't... this is going to be hard. But I _can't go back to him._ Ever."

"Okay," Puck promised, pulling Kurt in close. He smelled more like him already, after his shower. "You're safe. Okay?"

Kurt stepped back far enough to meet Puck's eyes. "Will you stop him from taking me, if he comes?"

"Yeah, of course. I told you, no one's getting through me." 

"No." Kurt's eyes were sad. With a horrible thud in his stomach, Puck realized what he meant. "You wouldn't be able to stop him. But he wants revenge, Puck. He hates being shown up. And I got away. Even if they get rid of any last nanobots, one day I'll just be doing something else and I'll see that mask next to me... he'll be there... and he'll...."

"I can't do that," Puck whispered. If Kurt thought Puck couldn't stop Doom, then there was only one way to stop Doom from taking Kurt alive. 

"You're right," Kurt said after a beat. "He'd just bring back the priests, if you killed me. It wouldn't do any good." And with that, he broke in front of Puck's eyes. It happened slowly, like snow beginning to slide down a mountain face: shoulders hunching, eyes scrunching up. The avalanche hit suddenly and Puck just swept Kurt into his arms as he collapsed where he stood. Kurt sounded like a wounded animal as he cried. Like something with its leg caught in a trap that had finally given up hope of escaping.

 _You were smiling yesterday,_ Puck thought helplessly as he kissed the crown of Kurt's head. _Where'd that go?_

"He's going to get me back, isn't he? One day, he will. I wasn't rescued. Not really."

"I don't know much about Doom," Puck allowed, "but he's got big, crazy plans, right? Babe, he's not going to obsess over you. You got away. You're safe." _Please believe that you're safe. You need to. You need to smile._

Kurt whispered halting, broken sentences that didn't make any sense individually. Taken together, Puck saw Kurt's past two months unfold like some horrible mosaic. He picked Kurt up, slapped a button on the phone, and then sank onto the couch. 

When Finn arrived, Kurt was curled up against Puck's chest so limply that they almost looked relaxed and happy. It was a cruel lie. "Hey," Finn said with a broad, forced smile. He looked pale after powering past the front hallway. "How're you doing?"

Kurt laughed bitterly. "I can't even die now, because he'd still just bring me back."

Puck's gut twisted at the talk of Kurt dying again. He met Finn's eyes over Kurt's hair, imploring him to somehow fix Kurt.

"How did the nanobots get turned off?" Kurt asked.

Finn and Puck froze mid-stare, then turned their gazes to Kurt.

"Something happened to me, didn't it? Something bad." Kurt's thin hands curled around Puck's shirt. "Something in the office. No. No, that's not it. I did something bad. I... oh god, what did I do?"

Finn was there in a second, kneeling in front of Kurt and grabbing his hands. Puck was startled to see his eyes glowing purple, but Kurt's brain was the one mind he trusted Finn to understand and deal with safely. "Dude, look at me. Look at me, okay?"

"Is that why Mercedes wasn't at the hospital?" Kurt whispered.

"She's fine. Mercedes is okay, I promise."

"Mike," Kurt said, even more softly. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and Puck could actually feel Kurt's heart pounding in his chest. As his breath sped, Kurt gulped, "I didn't mean to. Oh god. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He pulled a hand away from Finn and clutched his racing heart. Air began to wheeze as it passed through his throat. "Don't!" Kurt almost screamed when Puck tried to kiss him in some desperate attempt to calm his boyfriend, and he shoved himself away on the couch. 

Only Finn's hands clamping down on his temples managed to get Kurt to go still. He sobbed, and silent tears trickled down Puck's cheeks, but the explosion they'd been heading for seemed to pass. "It's okay," Finn said. His eyes were still burning bright.

"It's not okay. It's never going to be okay. I am never going to be okay!" Kurt's breath began to rattle again. "I remember my body moving around me. I remember being dead. I remember the bullets and all the blood and... and I can't do this...."

Puck had never felt so helpless.

"Please, Finn," Kurt whispered.

"I don't know if it'll really help...."

Puck looked between them, wondering what he'd missed. Was he was heading into a panic attack, too? His chest felt tight. This wasn't what things were supposed to be like after he'd gotten Kurt back.

"Please," Kurt repeated. "Please do it, please, _please._ "

With a bone-deep sigh, Finn nodded. His fingertips dimpled Kurt's skin and his eyes flashed like a thunderstorm. With each new bolt of lightning, Kurt breathed easier. His shoulders dropped. His tears stopped. The lines of tension in his face melted away, and finally he let out a long, shuddering sigh and pulled away from Finn's hands. "Thank you."

"What'd you do?" Puck demanded. "What'd you do to him?"

Finn glanced at him. _I hid his memories._

 _What? You idiot! That worked out so fucking well before, didn't it?_ Puck thought back, glaring at him as he remembered how Finn had decided that all Kurt's memories of him needed to be locked away.

 _He asked me to. I didn't make the decision for him, okay? I reacted and flowed like Emma taught me. I patched up memories and then I saw how he was doing, and I only did another one if I needed to._ Finn looked away. _And I needed to._

Puck tried not to flinch, or stare too openly at Kurt breathing like he'd just finished a long race. _How bad was he?_

_I don't know if he's going to be okay._

_For how long?_

_I... don't know if he's going to be okay._ Finn's eyes faded back to brown. There were dark circles underneath them. _Doom did some really bad things._

The words rang in Puck's head, a horrible chorus like church bells tolling someone's death. "Babe?" he asked gently, fearing the reaction he might get.

Kurt slumped back onto him. Now, his hands curled up in affection rather than some desperate need to hold on, and a tired smile curled his mouth. 

On the surface that was far better than where they'd been headed, but Puck still wanted to cry. After what Doom had done to Kurt, he thought it was more than fair that Kurt never had to deal with a single second of his memories. But they were still there. People outside that building still knew what he'd done, and might hold him accountable for it no matter how unfair it was.

"Hey," Finn said, a little too brightly. "You gonna be okay in here?"

Kurt nodded. 

_I need to go tell this stuff to... to someone. Maybe Mom. You've got him?_

_I've got him,_ Puck thought, and hoped he was telling the truth.

"I need to go see Mom," Finn said out loud. Kurt nodded again. "Look, I don't know if you can keep those memories sealed off forever. People might need to ask you about them. Eventually. Not today."

"I know," Kurt said. He saw Puck's surprise. "I know bad things happened to me. I know Doom took me. Finn didn't wipe out everything. This way I just don't have to know the specifics, and he sealed off some of the worst emotions. I can handle it, now."

 _How about that, Hudson has gotten better at this. It's like what he did with the memories of us, except it's not a total hack job. I guess the training worked._ "Cool." But the inevitable question lurked: how long would it last, though?

With a hug for his brother, Finn left them alone. Kurt sighed, loud and long, and slumped down until his head was pillowed in Puck's lap. Normally, the sensation of the material against his skin would make Puck hard; he was always ready at a second's notice. On that day, he was glad that his heart outweighed his libido, and he was able to stroke Kurt's hair gently with nothing more between them. "Whatever happens," Puck said, "you need to be okay, got it? Whatever you need to do."

Kurt nodded and said nothing.

"Hey, uh... can I kiss you, now? You freaked out before."

"That's why I kept you out of the shower," Kurt said. "If there are any of these things still in me...."

Oh. "We already went through this," Puck said, and bent down. After a few beats, Kurt lifted his head to meet Puck when he'd lowered as far as he could go, and kissed him with a closed mouth. Puck stayed where he was. "I'm never leaving you again. I mean it. You're stuck with me."

"Puck...."

"They're going to make sure you're cured. They can do the same to me." Puck stroked the lines of Kurt's face with one finger. "I promised you that last night when you were freaking out. You think I don't mean it now that you're happier?" Even if it was just a temporary, false happiness. "Like I was just trying to cheer you up?" 

"But if I hurt you...."

"Being apart hurt me worse than you ever could." Puck adjusted himself and used his strength to move Kurt until he was flat on the couch with Kurt sprawled on top of him. He let his grip stay loose enough that Kurt could have pushed himself away at any time. Kurt didn't. "Okay?" He searched Kurt's pale eyes for any sign of the worst trauma that Finn had hidden, and was pleased to see none. Kurt still looked tired, but no longer broken. Though it might return with a vengeance in the future, this finally felt like the reunion he'd craved ever since hearing that impossible discussion over his communicator. 

He raised his head again. Kurt hesitated, but when he kissed Puck, his mouth was open. He felt light and warm and impossible on top of Puck. He felt like a fantasy, and Puck's hands finally tightened around him so that Kurt wouldn't have the chance to flee like some daydream. "I screwed up when you were gone," he admitted.

"That makes two of us." It was the grimmest joke Puck had ever heard.

"It was like every bad thing I could do, I did." Puck swallowed as he looked up at Kurt's eyes. "I hurt people who didn't deserve it."

"That makes two of us," Kurt repeated against Puck's chest.

Maybe Kurt wasn't as happy as he'd thought, even with Finn's patch job. "I slept with other people." He felt Kurt go still, but touching Kurt any more without sharing this would be another betrayal. "I hated myself after it. Hell, I hated myself during it. Some of them were nice, and that makes it worse. I never asked their names. I just wanted to feel something besides... pain. But it didn't help."

"Oh." The walls began to close behind Kurt's eyes, like he always did when he was hurt. Puck talked more quickly, so that he could get everything out while Kurt was still listening.

"I got stupid and drunk and did anything that I thought might help me feel better, because not having you any more was like someone ripping out my heart and shoving it in the disposal. And turning it on. I only wanted you. I only love you. Everything I did just showed me that more, and I still only want you for the rest of our lives." As Kurt's breath caught, Puck cupped his cheek. If Kurt was only okay for a while before Finn's mental patch job began to fade, then he was going to take advantage of that time and say the things he needed to say. "No one is ever going to hurt you again. I know you're scared, and that's okay. But I will rip a building in fucking half and use it as a baseball bat before anyone lays a hand on you."

Kurt smiled helplessly, and his eyes filled again with tears.

"I'll learn how to make coffee. I'll know all the stuff that you use on your hair, and I'll make sure it's always in the bathroom. I'll end my lease and move in here, and take a job that's closer. I'll stop screwing things up."

"You're not screwing anything up," Kurt said, and kissed him through his soft, snuffling attempts to control his emotions.

"I was. But maybe that's okay." Puck smiled tremulously. "Because I feel like I can stop all that crap, now. It's like... you make me want to be who you think that I am."

Kurt touched Puck's lips with his fingertips. "I love who you already are." He laid back against Puck's chest, as slack as he'd been on the bed, and said, "Grow your hair back. Please."

"You got it." Puck tugged a blanket over them. For now, at least, he could focus on what was in front of them and not fret over what was to come. No breakdowns. No being hunted by Doctor Doom. No confrontations with people that were angered over what Kurt had been forced to do, without caring that he was as much a victim. No outside world at all. It couldn't last, but he'd take it while it did. "I meant it, you know. I'll move in if you want me to."

"I don't want to be alone. I can't."

"You're not going to be," Puck promised, and with another kiss, wondered if some of those nanobots were already in his system. They'd be cleared soon if they were. Either way, it was worth it. It was all worth it.

* * *

After all that time spent working as a private investigator, Tina had gotten very good at tracking someone down. "You're sure that this is a spell book?" she'd asked Sam when he handed her a printout of the file. Her hopes, struggling on the ground like a broken bird, soared anew.

"Well," he said with a shrug, "it was the only 'weapon' he had with him when he was trying to take on Brittany. I thought he was just kind of crazy before, but maybe it was actually a real magic book."

That was good enough, and Tina got to work. Though Mercedes tried to pull her back from the edge she was dancing increasingly near, Tina shoved her concerns out of her mind. Brittany had brought back Finn, and he was fine; Doctor Doom had brought back Kurt, and he was evil. The intention had to matter, and so she could save Mike. She could. She would. 

Eventually Mercedes' complaints grew too loud, and Tina grabbed her laptop and found a coffeeshop that she seldom frequented and Mercedes would have no cause to check. New York City hosted tens thousands of criminals who'd been photographed and processed. Digging through them without direction and looking for a match would be fruitless. She had a rough date range, though, and she could make estimates about this man from his picture. He looked like a student. Western European features. Height, weight... all were assessed at a glance, and so when she began to dig through criminal booking records, she was able to narrow things down.

Reginald Metcalfe's number was unlisted. Investigators had ways of finding a person's apartment, too.

"Hello," Tina said sweetly, an hour after that.

The man from the picture stared at her cleavage. "Hi," he said to her breasts.

Great. Determined to not leave without the information she needed, Tina's voice turned into a purr and she stepped forward. "I'm trying to find someone who's really strong."

"I'm super strong," he said, still to her breasts.

"Have you ever tried to, like... make a name for yourself?" Tina laid a hand on his chest. "I could have sworn I've seen you somewhere."

"Totally. I was going to make enough money to let me buy stuff for some killer plans, but now I'm on probation." The words tumbled out like he didn't even know he was saying them, and Tina smiled. Just a tiny application of her powers could make someone more relaxed. Coupled with his idiotic and blatant ogling, this guy really had no chance of holding onto himself and not giving her everything she wanted to know.

"Yeah, I think I saw you. Did you fight a girl named...." Tina just caught herself. "Haywire?"

"I fought lots of people until the cops said I couldn't be the Immortal Lord of Super Hell any more," he said. "Now I have to wear an ankle bracelet."

Perfect. She'd definitely found him. Tina took another step forward and asked with a purr, "Can we take this inside?"

He looked up and grinned. "My name's Reggie."

"Hi, Reggie," Tina said as they stepped inside his apartment and she closed the door behind them. Her hand shot up and caught Reggie around the throat, just where she'd held Kurt as she drained his life and make him scream. Instead of killing Reggie, she drew just enough of his life energy to fill him with deep, burning terror. He fell to the ground in a desperate attempt to escape her, but she followed him down. "You checked out a book. Where is it?"

"Please let me go," Reggie cried.

"You used a spellbook when you were trying to be a big supervillain," Tina said, straddling him. "Where is it? What was the name? Have you given it back?" He whimpered and her grip tightened. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be. I just have a job to do, and I want to get it done."

"It's over there," Reggie said. He pointed in the direction of his coffee table. "I checked it out again. Please don't hurt me."

The police had their eyes on him, but let him check out that book a second time? That wasn't a good sign for the book actually being worth her time. Tina's heart sank. _If it had been that rare in the first place, they wouldn't have even let him check it out. Remember how you had to make an appointment to visit the room?_ Still, the book did look useful for _something_ , she thought as she found it under a scattering of textbooks and started flipping through. Reggie, abandoned on the floor, lay there helplessly.

 _These spells do look legitimate,_ Tina realized with a growing dismay. The book was only from the forties and didn't have the obvious rare aura that might intrigue a rare books room, which had to be why he'd been able to check it out. _But it's all about hell and controlling demons. Doctor Strange said there's no reason that Mike should be in hell. This won't fix him._

Would this book point her on the right path, at least? She jotted down the author's name and book's title, but her hope barely fluttered. It might get her into the rare book room, at least. That had to be a start. What if the library didn't have any books like Doctor Strange's library, though? 

"Please don't hurt me," Reggie whimpered again.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Tina snapped. Was it really that easy to terrify someone into submission, or was this guy that pathetic? She couldn't be unhappy that he hadn't given her any trouble in her hunt to get back Mike, but this was just embarrassing. "Don't tell anyone I came here," she said, and shoved the book into her bag. Maybe she'd missed something useful, flipping through the pages like she had.

"But I have to take that back to the library," Reggie whined.

"You tried to open an actual portal to hell in Chelsea and you're complaining about a library fine?" Tina looked askance at him as she shouldered her bag. "No wonder no one bothered to run a picture of you."

He let out another pathetic whine and she slammed the door behind her. Tina's boots clicked a rapid cadence as she hurried outside. She wasn't really worried that he'd track her; he had that police ankle bracelet, after all, and she doubted that he'd ever gotten a good look at her face. But she had a book in hand that promised actual portals to hell, and she hadn't exactly obtained it through legal methods. Every wall suddenly seemed to hold a hidden police camera and every car had red and blue lights on top. _Calm down. This is working. You're doing it. You're saving Mike. Everything's going to be okay._ She hurried two blocks away before she pulled out the book and started flipping through. _You're still going to ask him to move in with you. You're still going to propose. You are still going to have a long and happy life together, and this book really is useless!_

She nearly threw it to the ground as her eyes filled with tears. There were real spells in there, but not a single section of the book was devoted to resurrections. The memory of that title from Doctor Strange's library taunted her. Resurrections. Resurrections. It was exactly what she needed, and that stupid doorman was blocking her way. "I'll figure this out," Tina promised Mike as she shoved the book back into her bag. Already, she'd stopped thinking of his body. He wasn't a _corpse_ , like she'd seen Finn fall to the ground as. Mike wasn't a slab of meat. That would mean he was dead, after all, and she no longer believed that.

He was not dead. He was just lost for a while, and she was going to bring him home.

As she finished rearranging her books, Tina's fingers brushed against something. A little scrap of paper, it shouldn't have caught her notice. She threw all sorts of things into her messenger bag, and would often pull out lunch receipts a month later. This felt different from a receipt. Stiff. Smaller.

 _Oh. It's one of those business cards Jesse gave me,_ she saw when she pulled it out. Tina crumpled it unthinkingly and looked around for a trash can, but then paused. With a smile, she unfolded the card she'd crushed and saw the number there. Her fingers danced across her cell's keys. "Hi, Jesse? It's Tina. Tina Cohen-Chang. Yes. The quiet one who doesn't put her talent to sufficient use." Whatever he wanted to say, she'd agree with. "Can I meet up with you somewhere? Somewhere private? I have a favor I need to ask."

"About getting those Broadway tickets?" Jesse asked. "Certainly, I'm glad that someone is finally taking me up on that offer. It's really a crime that all of you live in New York City and are letting spectacular cultural opportunities pass you by. Like seeing me."

"Absolutely. I totally, one hundred percent want you to get me in somewhere, Jesse. And trust me when I say that only you can do it."

He hesitated, probably as his ego battled with what little good sense he had. "What sort of tickets are we talking about?"

"It's somewhere very exclusive. Very... cultural." _Very filled with the most powerful magical books in the world, and you're going to teleport in there and grab one for me._ "I know it's a big thing to ask, Jesse, but I'll be really grateful." _And I'm very convincing._


	17. No Good Deed

"We need to talk."

Quinn looked uncertainly at Santana as they settled into the two office chairs left open for them. Even with the Kurt and Mike madness that she still had yet to internalize, they'd still been told to show up at Rockefeller Center for a discussion with their producers. All three of their producers; it was like a meeting of the Trinity, and they were mere supplicants. 

She wished Brittany were there. Then they wouldn't be outnumbered. Quinn was numb over everything that had happened, and that had her feeling overwhelmed in this meeting, too.

"We've gotten a request from the government for you to help out with something," said Tommy. He glanced at a printout. "And because they've been so good with helping us get filming permits and whatnot, we're going to do what they ask. We want to keep them on our good side."

"Okay," Santana said. "Are we fighting something, or...?"

"Hopefully not," Tommy said, without anything further.

Craig, the second of the three producers, picked up the discussion. "The government could make all our lives very difficult if we give them trouble. We don't want that, and so we cooperate with them."

Archer, the third producer who usually dwelled unseen within the building's walls, raised his rheumy eyes. "You have been giving us trouble."

Silence hung over them for a second. Santana frowned, then ventured, "Our friend just _died._ We haven't been able to get ahold of people yet for more than a minute at a time. Look, I'm sorry that I blew off that stupid photoshoot yesterday, but this is more important." Her anger crumbled. "Our friend just died."

"Please don't try to distract us from the situation at hand," Craig said.

Quinn gawked at him. "Are you serious? Mike Chang is—was—one of the sweetest, most genuine people I've ever known. If this network had any sense, they'd... they'd make a tribute episode for him. And you think that talking about him is a distraction?" They stared back at the women, and she let out a bitter laugh. "Did you think it was a distraction when Kurt died, too? Or did he get points for dying in the service of his country?" She sneered the last bit, as she pictured the annual commercial-fests that were the Independence Day specials on the networks.

"No, he probably lost points with them for being a big flaming queer-o," Santana said. Her face smiled. Her voice didn't. "Because I know you guys hate that."

"We are committed to diversity on this show," Archer said like he was reading off a script, which seemed to be all the reassurance they would offer.

"What are you telling us to do?" Quinn asked when she saw Santana about to lose her temper. She didn’t want to deny Santana her righteous rage over their employers’ favoritism. It wasn’t her place to tell a lesbian how she should feel about the clear commercial preference that Quinn's life received. But even with greater control over their powers than they'd started with, Santana’s temper sometimes came out in pyrotechnic waves. Charring an office to cinders would be bad enough; accidentally taking three network executives with it would change the course of the rest of Santana’s life.

The executives’ silent consideration gave her mind time to play with that statement. _Changing the course of your life. Funny, isn’t it? That contract set the course of your life. One decision, so much fallout. Kurt had one night on the job go wrong. Mercedes kept him in that building instead of letting him go, and Mike is dead. One decision. And you signed a contract._

Quinn forced her thoughts away as soon as they arrived. There was no getting out of the show unless their ratings suddenly cratered and it was canceled. Although sabotage sounded appealing right then, she suspected that they’d be held financially responsible for refusing to wear anything but pajamas and eat anything but Cheetos. It was bad enough that Quinn had refused to date those Avengers. They were still getting the cold shoulder because of it.

Tommy told them what the government had asked, and both women blinked. "Oh," Santana said. "I mean... I guess that’s okay."

"Is it?" Quinn asked her, beyond dubious. The two of them were supposed to report to a building later that day (address to be disclosed). They would watch as an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. was finally removed from some hostile agent’s control. Both of them knew exactly who that was, and although both were still wary about whether that was Kurt or something wearing his face, they could certainly bring themselves just to stand guard.

Quinn's question about whether this was truly okay regarded part two of their responsibilities: eliminating the threat if he caused trouble. Apparently, S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted someone there who was familiar with normal versus abnormal behavior for the subject, and who could take superpowered action instantly if the situation warranted it.

Santana shrugged. Her expression said a thousand things. _Do you really think he’s dangerous? If he is, then we have to be prepared to fight him wherever it happens. If he isn’t, then we don’t need to worry. We need to do this to shut them up. I want to see Kurt and see if he’s actually him. And if he’s not, I’m ready to take revenge for Mike._

Maybe Quinn was projecting on that last one. Her heart and head both had yet to accept that Mike Chang was really dead, and that he could have perished in such a brutal manner. Like some enormous tragedy, it was too big to comprehend. Kurt’s death hadn’t been that much of a surprise, as agonizing as it was. Quinn would feel the same about hearing that Rachel had perished on a mission, or that Brittany had taken on the wrong enemy with too light-hearted an approach. Some of them courted trouble.

But not Mike. The worst their agency had ever suffered was a man pointing a gun at Finn, and no one had been hurt. Mike Chang, quite possibly the nicest man alive, lived with Sam Evans, also in strong competition for the title. They held football parties in their tiny apartment, defined the word 'optimism,' and brightened rooms by walking into them. They were friends to people who needed friends. They helped people. Their smiles battled the sun.

It was impossible that Sam was sitting in an empty apartment. As impossible as breathing water or.... _Or Kurt coming back to life and killing Mike?_

"Good," Craig said as a dismissal. They took it as one and stood.

"Ladies?" Tommy asked as they turned to leave. "We know you're planning to focus on these little friends of yours. That's fine, so long as we still get the parties to feature our sponsors. If that won't happen, then you're going to need to prioritize."

Santana rounded on him. "You do not get to tell us to ignore our real friends because someone's paying you to stick me in a jumpsuit that I hate, around people that I don't know. No. We're done with that. Two of my friends have died. For all I know, I could have saved them."

"You're going to law school some day, Miss Lopez," Archer said in his old, creaky voice. "No, we can't make you uphold the contract that you signed. But you should know that we will take all punitive actions allowed under it if you don't live up to your end of the bargain."

Quinn opened her mouth to try to smooth things over again, but Santana reacted too quickly. "You're on a fourth-place network heading further downhill," Santana purred, "and Monday nights are the biggest thing you've got going for you. I don't just read contract law. I can read Entertainment Weekly, too."

They said nothing.

"I'm going to wear what I want, and you're going to put me and Brit front and center again, and I'm going to spend time with the people I actually love before they die, too. Because what I'm doing matters to all those little girls with color streaks in their hair, and no one gives a shit about a bunch of old men with bad toupees. No matter how much money you have." Santana pulled back. "Did that violate my contract, boys?"

"Not quite," Craig said through a thin smile. "But I can see that things are going to be very interesting from this point on out."

"Aww," Santana said. "And I was really _trying_ to." Her hand whipped forward. A crystal decanter of scotch melted, burst into flames when the alcohol was exposed, and sputtered out. An alarm blared, then died when the flames did.

"Come on," Quinn insisted when Santana's smirk entered into a silent standoff with their producers' furious stares. "We'll take everything you've said under advisement."

"We'll set our fucking wardrobes on fire!" Santana promised as Quinn dragged her out. "Let's see you put me in Michael Kors again after that! What?" she asked as Quinn slammed the door closed and then resumed dragging her to the elevator. "Don't give me the ice queen look, Fabray. Not after they basically said that they don't give a shit about Mike and they're going to make us kill Kurt, maybe. After... after everything."

"I hate them too, Santana." They boarded the elevator after its thankfully quick arrival. "But are these really enemies that we want to make? Is this the right approach?"

"You're too boring to be a superhero," Santana grumbled, although she did look a little ashamed of herself. "Superheroes blow stuff up."

Quinn smiled tiredly. She remembered hearing that she had a personality for being a special agent. Her powers were what belonged on a global stage, out in front of an audience. Well, no use thinking about the past. She'd signed that contract, and even if Santana didn't want to admit it, they were still bound by it. A fourth-place network was still far more powerful than them. "Do you really think you could bring yourself to kill him?" she asked. Although Quinn understood the logic behind wanting to have people there who could instantly see when Kurt wasn't acting like himself, she didn't want to face that possibility.

Santana went along with the change in topic. "I guess it's our job."

"Although you just said that you were sick of doing your job."

She snorted and didn't argue. "It'll be hard," Santana admitted. "Even if it's some weird zombie vampire, it'll still have Kurt's face."

That just about summed up how all of them felt sometimes, didn't it? Even if they felt like they were just shambling along, they still had their faces and all their old investments. "I want to see Mike," Quinn said quietly.

"Do you? Seriously?" Santana hugged herself on their way down the towering skyscraper.

"I want it to feel real." More things in her life needed to feel real as she was pulled away from her friends from Ohio and even her new potential friends at NYU, and from the chance to participate in daily heroics. She needed to really understand that Mike's smiling face was gone, replaced by the slack stare of death.

Santana didn't argue with that, either, and they walked through the lobby when the elevator deposited them there with a ding. Many of the visiting tourists recognized them and smiled; they dutifully waved back.

When they got to the streets outside, Santana's smile turned sincere when a familiar voice called to them from above. Brittany hopped off the overhang she'd been waiting on and landed in front of Santana. "How'd it go?" Her hair was a casual tumble of blonde and pink, and her outfit was pieced together among the loose lines she'd picked for her heroic costume: boots, leather jacket, a bold graphical tee. Quinn envied her in a short, sharp burst. Brittany had held onto her freedom.

"Our producers are assholes and we have to watch Kurt in case he goes all George Romero on us." Santana tried to laugh, but it came out as bitter as black coffee. "You want to help out?"

"I'd like to see Kurt," Brittany said, nodding. 

"Quinn wants to see Mike," Santana said. "I think it's weird, but I guess she's the one taking psych classes. Maybe it's therapy."

Brittany's eyes dimmed. "I tried to bring both of them back," she admitted quietly, to their surprise. Quinn hadn't known than she'd actually tried, although she'd guessed that Brittany had at least considered it. "But it didn't work, either time. I couldn't pull all the strings together."

"Strings?" Quinn asked.

"I see strings when I use my powers. I know if I tug on this one, then something will happen to the bad guy's boots and he won't be able to get away. A lot of ones like that are really big and easy to hold onto, like a rope." Brittany tucked a piece of pink hair behind her ear. "But sometimes they're tiny, like little threads, and I try to grab them but I can't. Sometimes I'd need to tie a bunch of little threads together to fix things, and I can't." Her whole body seemed to sag with failure.

"But hey, you tried," Santana said. "And that's great. Okay?"

Brittany still looked sad. "I tried to bring back Kurt, but I didn't know where he died, or who killed him. When I started to learn more things, it was too late. It was too late for Mike, too. All the strings were gone, or so small that I could barely see them. Sometimes the strings stick around for a long time if they were for a big enough thing, but I guess they weren't."

"Let's get lunch," Quinn decided. They needed to fuel their bodies before they served as bodyguards, and they needed to turn around this depression-fest for their hearts' sake. Besides, she wanted to get away from Rockefeller before their producers decided to follow them down for another chat.

She set their pace down the sidewalk, and Brittany and Santana followed close behind. Their hands were in each other's back pockets. "I want to get married," Santana said bluntly, and Brittany nearly tripped. For all the girl's grace, she hadn't been expecting that. "I'm not proposing, because we're doing that somewhere big, where it counts. And I know we've already said that we're engaged to be engaged. So this isn't new. But I just... I wanted to let you know. Again."

Brittany's beautiful smile reappeared from wherever it had fled, and she kissed Santana. They were perfect together in that moment: long necks arcing toward the other girl, lithe limbs walking down the street of their city. Quinn saw their future spreading out before her. "You make me feel luckier than I can get from pulling on any of my strings," Brittany said when they broke apart.

Santana beamed at her. The angry, flashing-eyes girl of the corporate office was gone. They were truly her friends like that, Quinn decided as she picked a direction in which to hunt for the perfect restaurant. Not with professionally styled hair, not in fancy clothes, not seeking fame or glory. Just them, together, caring about each other.

In that instant, she knew that there was no way the producers could ever tell her who to spend time with. She'd never give up her friends.

It was a mistake that they'd ever grown apart.

* * *

"Anger!" said Mr. Lynn in the heart of the Brown theatre. Blaine watched his chosen classmate react. Neil leapt from the floor and began an improvised rant about how much he hated toast crumbs under his bare feet. When he finished his drama exercise, their teacher smiled wryly at him. "Toast crumbs?"

Neil laughed sheepishly. "It was the first thing that came to mind, and I figured that if you're really angry you'd just go off ranting about whatever, rather than waiting for a better idea."

"Good," Mr. Lynn said. "You're exactly right. If I'd told you to be 'determined,' you might have been better served to wait a second or two for more solid inspiration. But you're right: when you're angry about something, you'll act like an idiot without thinking things through."

"Did I act like an idiot?" Neil asked Blaine as he stepped out of the group's center of focus and retook his seat.

"Yes, but like an angry idiot," Blaine said. That was the point of the _acting_ exercise, and so he did mean it as a compliment. Neil still looked disheartened.

Mr. Lynn began to turn in search of his next promptee among his students. "And we... can I help you, miss?"

The class looked over to follow Mr. Lynn’s question. Blaine was on his feet before he realized he was standing, because Rachel was at the door. Fear muted him. If he’d gotten a dozen phonecalls to tell him that Kurt was dead, how horrible must this news be to bring her here in person? What could possibly be that much worse?

"Excuse me," she said. "I’m sorry to intrude on your lesson. Could I please speak to Blaine?"

The class turned to Blaine and Mr. Lynn raised his eyebrows. "What’s this about? We still have an hour to go."

Blaine shrugged helplessly. The semester had just begun and it was his first time with Mr. Lynn, who’d be his instructor through several classes to come. He didn’t want to make a bad impression. "I have no idea."

"Then miss—"

Rachel cleared her throat. "I don’t think you understand, sir. I’m with the Avengers and this is urgent."

Now his classmates looked at each other. "She’s with the Avengers?"

"Who is she?"

"I don’t know, I’ve never heard of her."

With an irritated sigh, Rachel said, "Yes, I'm apprenticing with them and yes, I’m working on my public awareness levels. Can I please speak with him, sir? It really is urgent."

Mr. Lynn folded his arms across his chest and grinned. Blaine didn't like the looks of that grin, and there was still a tight knot in his stomach over whatever Rachel might be there for, but at least Mr. Lynn didn't seem to be blaming him for whatever was happening. "So, if you're with the Avengers, what can you do?"

Rachel sighed again. "It's clearly even more pressing than I thought to engage in proper PR for myself. Could someone please throw an empty water bottle into the air?" One of Blaine's classmates dug through his bag and did so. Rachel let out one short, perfect note that chimed like a crystal bell in the theatre, and a cascade of pink and gold danced through the air like notes being played on a sheet of music. Struck at the height of its arc, the plastic bottle vanished into shimmering light, then nothing.

The class dutifully applauded, and Mr. Lynn joined them. "You didn't tell us that you were friends with superheroes, Blaine," he said. "You don't get much of that here. We may have just found some exercises for next week."

Blaine managed a smile. "Is it all right if I go talk to her in the hallway? It must be urgent."

"Sure." 

At least his future classes would still be tolerable, going by Mr. Lynn's reaction. Blaine shouldered his bag and hurried up the aisle. "What happened?" he asked as soon as they were in the hall. Classes were in session throughout the various breakout rooms and studios around them, but they had privacy until a passing period.

She looked up and down the hallway before replying. That gave his imagination time to churn. Whoever had killed Kurt had come back for more. Mercedes? Finn? Oh god, what if they'd killed Burt and Carole? But then Rachel looked back at him, leaned in close, and said, "Kurt's back."

Blaine stared at her. "What?"

"I didn't want to tell you right away because I've been waiting for confirmation that he's doing all right, but—"

"I don't understand."

Rachel explained, "I actually got into Providence last night, but since I couldn't give you a firm answer on everything—"

Blaine grabbed her by the shoulders, perhaps a bit too hard. "Rachel, focus. What do you mean, 'Kurt's back?'"

Her eyes were alight with wonder. "He's alive."

Blaine's pulse sped. "But that's impossible. Were... were they wrong the first time? I mean, I...." His voice broke. "Rachel, I helped carry his casket."

"He... it's complicated. But they weren't wrong." She laughed faintly and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "It's very complicated, but he is alive and at home right now."

"Can you drive me back, or do I need to rent a car?" He hadn't brought his car to campus, on the recommendation of students who'd complained about parking. "Or I'll buy a plane ticket. I have a card, my parents will understand." They wouldn't really understand the impossibility of Kurt _coming back from the dead_ , but he'd get them as close as possible to comprehension.

"Well, yes, I have my car and I could drive us both. You have classes though, right?" Rachel smiled apologetically. "I still feel so awful about how you only heard from your voicemail. Santana found out by a _text_ , which was just the most terrible thing ever. I wanted to tell you in person."

"I'm going to New York," Blaine said firmly, and opened the door before he could lose his nerve. It was only the second semester of his schooling at an Ivy League school, where his parents were footing an extremely expensive bill. Well, he'd gone there to make them happy, mostly, so they could just deal with this, too. "Mr. Lynn? Rachel just told me that a government operative we both know has come back from the dead and he needs to see me."

Mr. Lynn tried to find something to say, and failed.

"Actually back from the dead," Blaine added, giddy. "They do that, you know. Superheroes. And I know them. Lots of them. So I have to go to New York, now. I'll get the notes from someone?"

"Sure," Mr. Lynn said. He scratched the back of his head. "I. Uh. Yeah. Let us know how it turns out."

Crowing, Blaine let the door fall shut and jogged down the hall. Rachel had to run to keep up. "I need to stop by my room first, all right?" He planned to be in New York for a while. "Do you have gas in your car? You know, while I'm packing, you could go get gas."

"I'm all ready to drive us," Rachel said, "but... oh, never mind. Go get what you need and we'll talk in the car. I'll pull around to your building."

Blaine's bag slapped against his hip as he hurried. Each step sent the words through his mind anew, like a drumbeat: _Kurt's alive. Kurt's alive. Kurt's alive._ He let out a sudden sharp laugh into the cold air. It burst from him like sunshine peaking through clouds. Rachel's sad look almost went unnoticed, but he refused to acknowledge it just yet. Fine, there were complications. Whatever had happened was still better than being _dead_.

If not for snowy spots and icy patches, he would have kept up the jogging pace he'd set inside. Blaine still walked fast enough that his breath came in short bursts by the time he passed under a heavy brick arch into the dormitory quadrangle. Rachel peeled off to her car as he continued on toward the heavy brick face of his college home. Bare trees had once looked skeletal, but now they looked quiet and pleasant under their blankets of snow. The flat red walls of Everett had long since seemed severe to Blaine, but now they were in a charming colonial style. Everything was beautiful.

He packed in a flurry, without any attention paid to outfits that might coordinate with anything he'd already stuffed in a suitcase. He nearly ran back outside without underwear or a toothbrush, and forced himself to go over the room calmly until he was sure that he'd gotten everything he needed. When that was done, he hurried back out to the sidewalk and found Rachel's car idling in a loading zone. As soon as his seat belt was on, he gestured her on.

"I can't believe this," Blaine said when they were finally out of the densest Providence traffic and she didn't need to focus so entirely on driving in a strange town. "I just don't... how did it happen?"

"Do you want to know?" Rachel asked without looking at him, "or do you just want to... revel for a while longer?"

The question sobered him, although joy still mostly reigned. "I do want to know. Is he all right?"

Rachel glanced at him, then back to the road. "Do you really want to know? I'm honestly asking. It's the sort of thing that you dumped him over."

The bald statement landed like a punch, and he cringed. Yes, he had, hadn't he? He'd made quite possibly the worst decision of his life in a hospital bed, and it had felt like agony. Apparently, what he'd felt then didn't compare to what Kurt had gone through now. So, yes. He could face it. "I want to know everything."

She told him: the targeted murder, the resurrection, the slavery. Blaine stayed quiet and still, except when he wiped away a tear. How could someone have done that to Kurt? How could someone do that to anyone? "And that's where we are now," Rachel finished. "You might not even get to see him immediately. I should have told you that."

"Is he still in the hospital?" Blaine asked. He flashed back to what it had looked like to see Kurt sitting next to him as Blaine ended what they had, and something hot and strange began to build in his chest. It took him a few breaths to realize that it was hope. In the long dark dead winter, it had become a stranger, forgotten like many old friends.

"No, but he's in his building. Which you're not authorized for, remember?" she added apologetically. 

"He'll come out of it," Blaine said with confidence. "He'll need people. Kurt tries to put up his walls to face the world, but he lets in the people he cares about."

"Oh, don't worry!" Rachel said. "I mean, yes, I completely agree with you. He needs all of us there for him. I can't even imagine how traumatic this was, and we need to love and support him through all of it. But I can go up there until he comes down, and so can Finn, of course. That'll be very helpful, since they have that... mental brother connection that I don't entirely understand. And Puck's never left his side, of course."

Puck's name slid off Blaine's mind like a pat of melting butter. 

Kurt had died, and he'd come back. That impossible miracle had put their history into sharp relief, and Blaine knew something now that his subconscious had barely dared to debate, for fear of the answer it might receive: it had been a mistake to end their relationship. 

He'd never really moved on, and on that wondrous day he knew that Kurt hadn't, either. There was simply no way. No. Not after they'd been so perfect together, and not when he'd been such a fool to end it. 

It had been a mistake. And this was a day for second chances.

* * *

S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Midtown headquarters wasn't really in walking distance of his apartment, but Finn set off down the sidewalk anyway. He wanted to talk without a driver listening in.

After all his weekly sessions, he knew the private number he punched in by heart. Emma Frost soon answered. "Finn, we canceled this week, remember? After your progress last time, I'm very happy to move to every other week. I have a life besides you and it's far more interesting."

"Kurt's back and I'm kind of freaking out at what I did to his brain. I got in there really deep, and I did stuff."

"Oh," she said after a short pause. "Your brother? How did that happen?" After he gave her a short version of everything, Emma said, "Just to be on the safe side, when you were 'really deep' inside his brain, you didn't happen to notice any cosmic forces that had latched onto him with the plan to destroy billions of lives at a stroke, did you?"

Finn stopped mid-stride. What? "Uh. No?"

"Oh, good. I doubted that he'd catch that sort of attention, given how his only real psychic abilities are weak illusions. But it's always better to be safe than sorry. Enormous danger can come from the most unlikely sources."

Whatever she was talking about made Finn's head hurt. Every now and then he was reminded how they'd stepped onto a world stage far larger than them. It could be overwhelming. The worst part was how they were supposed to be heroes, living bigger and brighter and harder lives than anyone else, but instead it mostly felt like they were hurt in deeper and longer ways, instead. And they didn’t even get a chance to fix things. 

He started walking again, feeling sick as he pictured Mike’s face. His head hurt where Kurt had split the scalp. "He started having like a... hardcore panic attack. He remembered what Doctor Doom did to him, and it was...." Finn stopped walking again and found the nearest wall to lean against. Just like he'd felt sick over the memories of that little girl they'd rescued from kidnappers, his stomach churned at the memories of what Kurt had been forced to do. He wished that he had never read them, even more than he wished he didn’t know the sorts of things some of the kidnappers in their neighborhood did to street kids and mutants. Especially mutants. "It was really bad."

"And how did your powers enter into this?"

"He asked me to seal his memories. I knew I could. I'd done it before, without him asking." Finn looked up at the grey sky. It turned the sun into the flat oppressive lighting of an overhead florescent. "I remembered what you taught me. I didn't make any big decisions for him. I reacted to whatever he was reacting to, and I only did as much as I needed to. Sometimes I didn't even seal the memories, I just kind of... muffled them, so the feelings wouldn't be as loud. Is that okay?"

Emma considered that. "He can't hide from what happened to him forever."

"I know." As soon as Kurt stepped outside, he might be faced with what happened. He might be faced with the fallout of what Doom's commands had done to Mike. Hell, every time Kurt looked at Finn he had to see the stitched-closed wound carving a red path across his scalp, and they were in the same building. At least they weren’t in the same apartment any more.

"It probably would have been better if you'd just worked through his panic attack through other methods. But, now that you've done this, I suppose you'll need to stay close to him and release memories when you think that he's ready. You’re confident in restoring memories by now, aren’t you?"

Finn resisted the urge to snort. His portfolio of skills wasn’t enormous, but after the hell she’d put him through, he thought that memory manipulation and restoration had to compete with drumming near the top of that list. "Uh, yeah."

"And try not to overestimate his coping abilities. Only pull off a band-aid if you really trust that it’s safe. You'll effectively be torturing him all over again when you release a new memory, and I'd hate for him to snap and take your head off."

"Kurt's pretty wiped out by now," Finn said uncertainly. "I think he'd go all glassy-eyed before he started freaking out again."

"No, I'm worried that he might literally remove your head if he snaps. The man's powers were designed to draw blood and I doubt that you could hold him off, since you'd probably pull your punches."

Finn frowned at the noise he heard next. "Did you just hit your phone?"

"That thump was to help you visualize your actual skull hitting the floor."

A chill crept under his jacket. "Um. Got it. But do you really think he'd...?"

"Never underestimate what this sort of trauma can do to a person." Emma's voice softened. "That never ends well."

* * *

"Tina," Jesse said as he opened the door to his small but well-kept studio. It was the smallest rental she'd ever seen in the city. That was the price he paid to live alone close to the Theatre District, she supposed. "I'd invite you in, but I'm afraid my home would get a little crowded if we both took deep breaths." She brushed past him anyway and his lips thinned. "But do come in."

"I need you to do something for me," Tina said. "Close the door."

He did so and raised an eyebrow as he turned to face her. "You've certainly gotten dominating since high school. Where'd that shy little mouse with the crippling anxiety disorder go? I can't say that I favor submissive women, but you did play nicely into a certain racial stereotype that made you easy to categorize." His smile dared her to call him on what he'd said.

Tina didn't flinch. If Jesse was trying to force a reaction from her to once again feel in control of the situation, he could keep right on trying. "You’re right. I’m not easy to categorize."

"A pity. Categorization isn't inherently a bad thing. It lets you know which sort of roles you should go out for in the hopes of developing a reputation among casting agents. That way, they'll think of you without having to work at it fresh each time. They're picky, you know. There are far more singers than roles. You don't want to annoy the people in charge." Jesse's cocky smile began to fade as Tina stared at him without moving or blinking. "Look, what do you want? You said you wanted to get in somewhere?"

"You don't want to annoy the people in charge," Tina agreed. She had no idea how Jesse hadn't been thrown out of every theatre in New York by now, considering the ego he toted around, but now they were discussing something else. "And right now, I'm in charge."

"I'm getting you tickets," Jesse said. He began to sound annoyed. "It's not polite nor wise to threaten the people doing you a favor. You remember that, right? That I generously stopped by the funeral of your poor dead friend, who'll now eternally be in need of a good bronzer?"

"Kurt is not my friend," Tina said.

Jesse waved that off. "Was, fine."

"He's back."

Jesse blinked. "What?"

"Or something wearing his face is, anyway," Tina said. She took a step toward the door, and Jesse.

"That's impossible," Jesse said, but the last bits of egotism behind his eyes were beginning to fall away.

"He killed Mike," Tina said, and noted with satisfaction how Jesse jerked again with surprise. "I'm sure you haven't heard about it. Everyone cried over Kurt, but Mike's been taken away to some lab to make sure that Doctor Doom didn't do anything to him as part of the attack." Tina's smile felt like a dog baring its teeth. If she didn't know that she could fix everything, the utter disregard with which Mike was being treated would really upset her. "You're going to help me."

"I'm not stealing your boyfriend's body back," Jesse said in horror.

Not a bad idea, Tina had to admit. "No. That's not why I'm here. I need the key to this little puzzle. I just walked into a stranger's house, tortured him until he was helpless on the carpet, and stole this," Tina said, holding up the library book she'd taken.

Jesse eyed it, then her. "I can teleport, you realize. If you try to lay one finger on me, you'll only be touching empty air."

"I don't need to lay a finger on you, Jesse. So long as I can get close, I can make you feel so much pain that you won't even be able to come close to accessing your powers." The smart thing to do would have been for him to flee as she talked, with her arms still folded across her chest. Tina knew that she could be very dangerous when she was provoked, though. It was no surprise that he was holding very still, instead, like a mouse hoping that a cobra wouldn't strike.

She was scary when she put her mind to it. And right now, with the desperate need to fix Mike, that mind was holding on by a very thin thread.

"So you want me to teleport somewhere and steal someone's property," Jesse said after a long second of considering her folded arms. "I’m not going to get in trouble for your sake."

Tina’d had the foresight to drain a car’s battery before she came upstairs. That owner would be enormously unhappy when he turned his keys in a dead car, but it served her needs nicely. Jesse’s eyes widened as her hand raised. Another second’s reaction time might have been enough to teleport, but she moved faster.

Jesse screamed on the floor. As she'd promised, he was in too much pain to use his powers.

"You can run," Tina admitted as she toned down her powers enough to restore Jesse’s coherence. He could have fled then, but fear had replaced pain’s paralysis. "But every second that you make me wait is another second that I’m not rescuing Mike. I talked with someone about hells. When things go wrong, people can end up there. Well, that thing that killed Mike was pretty much a demon." If anything could pull Mike to somewhere horrible, it’d be whatever monster was wearing Kurt’s skin.

Her voice dropped. She leaned in closer and Jesse tried to shrink further against the floor. "Every second that you make me wait, Jesse St. James, is another second that _you_ are keeping my Michael in hell. And believe me when I say that I will repay every single one."

"Where do you want me to go?" Jesse croaked, and she smiled.

* * *

As he lay in the warm junction of couch cushion and Puck's side, Kurt wondered what he was supposed to do about the outside world. Those streets seemed impossibly distant. He'd just spent a month and a half visiting dozens of countries to do unspeakable things. Now he was home and didn't really want to leave, because the thought of being out there and vulnerable sent a frisson of fear through him that Finn's shields couldn’t quite stop.

One day he would need to deal with the pain of everything that he'd done, but Kurt didn't know how that could ever happen. He could remember killing Mike, but it was like watching a character on a movie screen. The blood was all special effects. It was difficult to feel in his heart that it wasn't make-believe, and that his own hands had killed one of his friends because he couldn’t make them stop.

Finn hadn't blocked the memory of shooting Puck, since it wasn't among the worst of what Kurt had done. Even though it was just a mild wound, almost grazing, Kurt felt worse about Puck’s injury than Mike's throat because of the shields. He knew that wasn't right, and that knowledge made him fear the outside. For weeks, he'd been trapped in that tower room, unable to leave it. Now he could go anywhere he wanted—with a S.H.I.E.L.D. escort, until they had everything under control—and he didn't want to leave.

His parents, his friends; they were all out there. But, Kurt realized with growing dismay, he was too frightened to see them. Frightened of what Doom might do. Frightened of what he'd done, even though he couldn't help it.

He'd always prided himself on being able to stand up after he'd been knocked down. Would he ever be able to get up from this seat on the couch?

"Are you cold?" Puck asked. "I can go make more coffee." He sounded so proud of himself as he added, "I know how, now."

"No," Kurt said. "I'm just...." _My body wasn't my own. I was in pain and alone, and no one might ever understand how much unless they can read my mind. And then it was so much that I freaked out and couldn't handle it when Finn did read it. Doom made me do things. He made me. I. Jack. Mike._ Shivering again, he asked, "Could you get a heavier blanket?"

The world was white outside with snowclouds moving across the city. Puck didn't think twice about the request, and soon returned with a thick ecru cashmere throw that Kurt could vaguely remember picking out. He'd paid so much attention to finding exactly the right neutral for the room. "Nice," Puck commented idly as he cocooned them together under it, and then felt the soft material with his fingertips. They slid back under the throw and found their way onto Kurt's body, brushing against his torso with all the care one might take not to startle a fawn. 

Kurt tensed regardless. _This body killed people._ Puck shouldn't touch it. _No one should._

With a long, searching look, full of concern and hidden pain, Puck pulled his hand away again. "You doing okay? You want to watch a movie?"

"Sure. Pick one."

Puck scrolled through the options on the screen. Sometimes he tried to get Kurt to watch big, loud action movies, which Kurt could occasionally tolerate. Sometimes Kurt put on old movies in black and white, and although Puck didn't complain, he did often fall asleep. There was a healthy middle ground, though, and they'd long since found their most comfortable shared stomping grounds of popular culture. "Yeah?" Puck asked as he gestured to the screen.

Ferris Bueller was definitely better than Ghost. Kurt nodded and settled in for a two-hour reminder of the genius of John Hughes. _I wonder if he thinks that's us,_ Kurt wondered suddenly as Ferris and Sloan talked. The rogue, and his partner with perfect styling. It would seem like an appealing comparison, if not how cruel a taunt their easy lives were. Suddenly, Kurt became aware of how he was almost... scratching at his mental blocks, although he'd thought it impossible. Like scents coming off a scratch-and-sniff button, the fear and tension of his actions began to rise within him as he worried at his blocks. This was something new that Finn had learned, and he clearly had much more control over his powers if he was able to so neatly deal with memories. Probably, he'd left them there so Kurt could take them off at his own pace.

That pace didn't include "right now," and Kurt thought of anything else. Wrigley Field. Sears Tower. Abe Froman, Sausage King of Chicago.

He'd never realized it before, but Ferris Bueller was kind of a jerk. Joie de vivre was one thing, but this was sheer irresponsible entitlement. 

_I hope I can get my sense of humor back._ He hoped he could get a lot of things back, Kurt thought as Puck began gently stroking his hair and Kurt leaned into the touch. That, at least, was as good as ever.

"I meant everything I said," Puck murmured. "All of it. You make me feel like I'm worth more than Gates and Trump and Oprah, and I just want to see you happy. Always. Okay?"

"I'd like to be happy," Kurt admitted. As he said it he feared what was behind the blocks inside his mind, and how far and fast he'd fall when they were pulled off.

They progressed through a healthy selection of classic comedies. Most were pleasant distractions, but Clueless made him sad. Puck noticed, and turned it off during Cher’s grade scheming despite his appreciation of Alicia Silverstone’s miniskirts, but the damage was done. Kurt had spent his childhood wishing that he had an accepting family who could give him everything he ever wanted, and that his closet would look like Cher Horowitz’s. Then he got all of that after his parents were murdered. 

He should have known that it could never last. No paradise bought with blood could stand forever. Fate had called in that check just as surely as he’d been called on buying everything he wanted with a S.H.I.E.L.D. credit card.

It didn’t seem fair, though. He’d chosen so little of his life. The time he’d really tried to make a difference, by choosing his career, had sent him to hell. _Is this what being a hero means?_ Kurt wondered as Puck, looking a little like he hated himself for it, put on The Little Mermaid.

That actually made Kurt smile, and he twisted up to look at Puck. "Really?" he asked, amused.

"Well, if you don’t want to watch it, then let me put on some Air Force One or something."

"No, I want to watch." 

Puck anticipated his question. "I didn’t always like what my sister liked to watch, but it stayed on the TV. Because I’m a good brother. And I’m trying to be, you know... good. Here."

Kurt could have kissed him for that, but he was still wary of getting any lingering nanobots into Puck’s body. Instead, he wormed further under the blanket and pressed against Puck’s side, and settled in for televised comfort. For one fleeting second he thought about unzipping Puck’s jeans under their shared blanket and using his hand on what he found inside, but the idea passed. Puck would want to do the same for him.

His own body had been a weapon used against him for weeks. He knew it made no sense, but Kurt didn’t want to reward it by letting it feel good. Not yet. Not until it once again was unquestionably his. Puck was extraordinary in bed when he put his mind to it, and more than once he’d left Kurt boneless and blissful as he stared at his ceiling, putting off sleep for a few precious more minutes of endorphin highs. There would be no doing that to any lingering nanobots.

Still, this was nice. 

The phone ringing nearly drew a scream from him. _No, I’m not ready to deal with the outside world,_ Kurt thought as his heart pounded. Had the ringer always been so shrill?

"Stay here," Puck decided when they let the phone go to message, and it started up again. Kurt watched him from under the blanket as he rose, picked up the phone, and asked, "Yeah?" His face betrayed nothing. "Who? Can we trust him?" A beat. "No, actually, I don’t have to pass the phone to him. Yes, even if you tell me. I don’t work for you, Eyepatch."

Kurt groaned. "Puck, phone." As he reached for the handset, a shiver ran through him. He was following orders. Just follow orders, Agent Hummel, follow orders follow them don’t question do as you’re told. When he stopped shivering, his fist was balled so tightly that his nails hurt his palm. _If I were a good person, I wouldn’t be hiding behind Finn’s shields._ But if he was already this fragile, how could he do otherwise?

Puck watched with concern as Kurt forced his hand open. He handed the phone to Kurt when Kurt held out that hand for it, thankfully without protest. "Hello, sir?"

"Agent Hummel," said Nick Fury's deep voice. "How are you doing?"

 _I've been to hell and back, sir, and sometimes I don't feel like I've even left._ "It varies." Kurt swallowed as sudden fear struck him. "I don't... I'm not expected back at work, am I?" 

He'd had to kill someone on a mission, in the times _before_. If it happened again now, after everything that happened, he would need more than a week to recover. He'd need a lifetime.

"We're assessing when you'll come back to work," Fury said carefully, "but it won't be any time soon." That was a relief, at least. "No, you're headed to a lab to get any last 'bots taken out. That way, we'll be sure that Doom's got his hands entirely off you."

"Oh." That was good, right? At least this last chain would be cut. The reassurance died as quickly as it arrived, though. "Sir, that's not true."

"We've got the best people working on this. When Victor von Doom picks a fight with S.H.I.E.L.D., we pick one right back." Fury's voice smiled across the phone, in that slow hungry way he had whenever he saw an easy target. "And I'm not fond of losing."

"Neither is he, sir." Kurt avoided Puck's eyes. "He took me to prove a point to you. Everything was to prove a point." Kurt had gone blind to prove a point. "I doubt he'll give me up without a very strong fight. It's not about me. It's about you."

As Puck took a concerned step forward, silence reigned on the line. "I see," Fury said. "I expected that, but from what he's said, he must have confirmed it to you."

"Yes, sir," Kurt said, and shuddered as memories crowded him like mosquitoes. Puck held Kurt's empty hand, but he still shivered. Mutating his body had always been another threat that Doom had held over him. Unlike his eyes, Kurt doubted that he'd reverse that change if he'd gone through with it. Kurt's actions against others were to prove a point to S.H.I.E.L.D., but Doom putting Kurt himself through torture was all about proving a point to Kurt: give up all hope, because there is no chance of escape. 

The lessons had been effective. Even in New York, he still believed them. They still made him fear, and he somehow knew that Victor von Doom would make another grab for him.

"I assume that you have very strong objections to the idea of going back."

The words drew instant tears. Fury couldn't be suggesting some sort of spy mission, could he? Puck mouthed a question, and pulled Kurt into a hug when Kurt only shook his head in dismay. _No,_ Kurt thought. _No, I can't go back. They can't make me._ "Sir, I won't go back to him."

"Talk to the lab people," Fury said. "They'll have ways of handling that." As if he'd anticipated Kurt's concerns, he added, "He's not getting his hands on you again, soldier. We'll make sure of it."

Kurt nodded against Puck's shoulder. Strong hands rubbed his back; Puck might not understand everything that was going on, but he tried his best at comfort regardless. It helped some tiny amount. "When will they be expecting me?"

He didn't like the answer, but Kurt hung up and walked to get his coat. "Come on," Kurt said, and pulled it on. He glanced at the front door, where he knew guards were stationed. They were being told right now to escort Kurt downstairs. _Downstairs._ The word made his hands shake again, and he had to work hard to button his jacket. "Let's go get our flu shot."

* * *

Jesse St. James was tragically underappreciated in his time.

His talent was undeniable, his personality a shining star in the heavens. And yet here he was, standing on a sidewalk near NYU, looking up at the house that he was about to rob. _I am so much better than this,_ he thought darkly as he studied the place. _This will certainly teach me to offer others the chance to benefit from my largesse._

He could have teleported directly there from his apartment; Tina had offered very precise directions. But he wanted to get the feel of the place, first. Jesse didn't have to worry about teleporting into a wall on accident and killing himself, like some others with similar powers. That had once been a risk, but once their powers stabilized, his had developed that convenient little fail-safe. He always appeared just to the side of any such danger, rather than in its middle. There was no risk of ending up halfway through a table if he didn't properly plan his attack.

Not only did studying the house make him feel better about what he had to do, though, it also delayed his return to Tina.

He hoped that making the bitch wait was really annoying her.

Maybe he'd buy himself a cup of coffee before he went back. Maybe he'd go to a movie. No, he realized glumly as he watched a shadowy figure pass in front of a third-floor window. The ones on the library's level remained empty. If he antagonized Tina too far, she might use her powers on him again whether or not he handed her the book. Shuddering at the memory of the pain and fear she'd sent through him like knives, Jesse steeled himself for the felony he was about to commit.

When he appeared inside Doctor Strange's library in a puff of displaced air, an alarm sounded. It was like no car alarm he'd ever heard; this was the shrieking of a thousand horrible demons forced through a long glass tube that echoed like bells. Covering his ears, he looked desperately around. The instructions she'd given exactly matched what he saw, as the room had apparently etched itself deep into her memories. _There,_ he thought, and grabbed the two titles she'd requested. They burned his hands until he shoved them into his bag. Fortunately, they didn't start burning the papers inside, or the other book.

Jesse could hear footsteps pounding toward the door and he vanished again. His powers were limited, true. He couldn't attack a rampaging foe, nor fly, nor read someone's mind. But his focused teleportation skills were among the best in the world. Neither categorization nor specialization were bad, after all. There had been a slight resistance when he'd teleported into the room; likely, anyone weaker would have been diverted back outside the house, or possibly even into some transdimensional holding area. But he'd been able to pierce right through it.

And now, he thought as he stood in a nearby park and peered inside his messenger bag, he had one more task to do.

_"Here," Tina had told him, just before he'd left._

_"The one you stole?" Jesse asked as she'd handed him a library book._

_"If if you're getting me what I really need, then I guess I can give it back." She shrugged._

_"You're a model citizen," Jesse drawled._

_Tina's eyes hardened, and Jesse cursed his clever tongue. "Yes. I am. I'm rescuing the man I love."_

As Jesse checked the second address she'd given him, he snorted at the memory. He was quite sure that Tina Cohen-Chang was setting herself up for a nasty surprise with the return of a zombie boyfriend. Or maybe she'd need to trade her life for his, when she got to the end of the spell. Maybe she'd just need to trade any life, and she'd hunt down what was apparently a killer in countertenor form. Maybe she'd just destroy a block of New York City, and Jesse would use his teleportation powers to hop right to theatre auditions in Los Angeles or Las Vegas or London.

He didn't really care what happened, honestly. He had a headache, and he wasn't about to try to help a woman who'd tortured him avoid a very bad idea. He doubted that he'd get any praise for his efforts, if he did.

"Here," Jesse said after his next teleport. A rounded boy—not thin, not fat, with a stub of a nose and eyes that couldn't decide if they were brown or hazel—yelped at the sudden intrusion into his apartment. He had on what could only be a promotional giveaway shirt, because Jesse didn't want to think that anyone had actually paid good money to plaster themselves with a software brand's logo. Money should be spent on hair treatments, elegant shoes, live music, and pilgrimages to cemeteries that held famous performers. It should not be spent on a t-shirt with a cartoon penguin.

"Who are you?" the boy asked. He'd gone the color of curdled milk.

"An errand boy," Jesse sneered in disgust. "Here, take this." He threw the scuffed library book at the boy Tina had tortured. "What's your name?"

"Reginald Metcalfe," he said as he fumbled the catch and dropped the book. "Reggie."

Jesse rolled his eyes. The name had no rhythm and grace whatsoever. "The woman who threatened both of us has no further use for that, so enjoy. She found a book on what she really needed, thanks to me. And thanks to her, I might have a criminal record." Reggie stared dumbly back at him and Jesse flipped open his bag to show him the two other books' spines. "These have what she needs. Your book is all on the wrong topic, apparently."

Reggie looked startled. "Wait, so is this a full-on magic book? Like, with real spells?" He frowned at it. "I never got anything big to work, but maybe I just didn't try hard enough...."

"Maybe," Jesse said, and shrugged. If the world were at all fair, there was a spell in there to put Tina through as much pain as she'd doled out to Jesse. "Here's an idea: why not go track her down and show her what it looks like when you put that book to good use?" 

"I can't leave my apartment," Reggie said.

"I know the world is frightening to someone who hasn't seen natural sunlight in a year, but you won't actually burn if you just step outside."

"I know," Reggie said defensively. "I _can't_ leave. The police said so." He hitched up his pant leg to show a plastic band beeping silently against his skin. "This monitor sends out a signal to let them know where I am."

Jesse frowned at it. "Why don't you take it off?"

Reggie scratched idly at the plastic around his hairy ankle. "It sends out an alert if I tamper with it. They told me that. And I got the okay to do classes remotely, but if my school finds out I got arrested and took off my anklet, they'd expel me."

"I see," Jesse said, just before he took Reggie's hand, teleported them to Queens, and back to Manhattan, two feet over from where they'd started. When they returned, the ankle bracelet lay on the ground. Jesse had been sure not to include that in their jaunt.

"Whatdidyoudo?" Reggie asked, all as one word. His eyes bulged like hardboiled eggs. 

"Freed you to go give a little payback to the woman who dared to threaten me in my own house," Jesse said, almost sweetly. "What do you call yourself, again?"

"The Immortal Lord of Super Hell."

"That's embarrassing. Hire a PR firm and listen to whatever suggestions they have." It was 'the Awesomes' all over again. Why did no one but him have a proper sense of self-promotion? Rachel was throwing away her talents on heroics instead of stepping into Broadway glory. Rumor had it that even her friends on that television show had ruined amazing PR relationships in the making, and with Avengers, no less. It was depressing. Still, Jesse smiled like the Grinch. "Here's her name," Jesse said as he scratched down the little he knew of Tina Cohen-Chang's contact information. For good measure, he added the Aretha wannabe and the vaguely Matt Damon-shaped piece of Wonder Bread that she apparently dated. 

"Why are you doing this?" asked Reggie suspiciously, after the first light of revenge faded from his eyes.

"I don't like being upstaged," Jesse said.


	18. When the Sky is Burning

No one ever paid much attention to Tina Cohen-Chang.

Some people thrived in New York City, but as a young child she'd found it too easy to fade into the crowd. The city was so big, with so many interesting people, and she couldn't possibly compete. Her parents were busy at work, always so busy, and they kept enrolling her in afterschool programs that she didn't want to join. It was important that she not just wander the streets, they told her, and so she somehow wound up in a swim class at the YWCA. That ended thankfully quickly, and she instead joined the outreach programs of a local adult education center. She learned the basics of how to make her own simple clothes and paint a highly unconvincing mountain. 

That didn't last, either. Her parents decided that she needed to spend more time with kids her own age. When she protested that she was around kids at school all day, they remained unconvinced. She wasn't making friends there, and so back she went to any afterschool classes with openings. Back she went to feeling overwhelmed after overcrowded classes at school.

When she was transferred to a special government class with only ten other students, she finally felt like she could breathe. It turned out to be exactly what she needed. Except for four of her classmates who all came from the Upper West Side together, most of the students were in the same boat as her: quietly seeking out friends in the small group and thriving in the low-pressure atmosphere. 

For the first time, she'd made real friends. For the first time, she'd fallen in love.

She'd gotten her first kiss on a street corner as she and Mike waited for the light to turn. They were on a date and she'd thought a kiss might happen by its end. Instead, their first kiss happened right there where everyone could see. Tina didn't care, and she kissed him freely back with all the awkwardness of youth. Later, over dinner, he'd said that he saw the cross street turning yellow. Knowing that their light was about to change had kicked him into gear.

Both of them had started off so muted, like they were colors left out too long in the sun. It was an exposure to otherworldly energy that had unlocked everyone's full potential with new superpowers, so the scientists later said, but Tina thought that just being around her new friends had already unlocked a lot of what was inside them. Tina spoke her mind more, and Mike stopped caring when people looked at him. Although their memory wipes tried to undo all of that, it happened again when all of their friends reunited in Ohio.

But even then, among her friends, she wasn't a star. She was always support, the girl in the background. Easily forgotten. The government might or might not have told Mike's parents what had happened to him by now, but whenever they did, Tina was sure that they wouldn't think of her when they mourned. The Changs were nicer than she'd originally thought, but there was simply no way that they'd care about Tina to the level that their son's almost-fiancee deserved. No one had flooded Tina with calls and texts like they'd done for Puck. Sure, he'd been living on his own, with no watchful eyes like Mercedes and Sam, but the difference in how people cared was undeniable.

Well, she was about to blow the fucking lid off their assumptions about what sort of mark Tina Cohen-Chang would leave on the world.

Jesse St. James appeared in the alley location she'd told him, wearing the tight mask of someone trying to hide how angry he was. "Here are your books," he said, and thrust the two at her.

Slick and darkened with time, the leather covers deserved to be handled with care like the antiques they were. But Jesse wanted to be rid of them, and Tina knew that she couldn't stay still. For all she knew, Doctor Strange could track anything in from his house, and so she needed to work quickly. She looked at the spines, nodded with satisfaction when she saw that one talked in French about resurrections and the other detailed a road through hell, and shoved them into her bag. "Thank you."

Jesse's eyes were little more than slits. "Happy to help. You've given me a marvelous lesson in generosity, Tina. I'll be sure to offer favors to many other people, so that I can have this much fun every week."

She ignored him. He made a habit out of causing trouble, intentional or not. Thanks to him, they'd gotten pulled into Shelby's schemes back in Lima. He'd practically put those bullets through Sam and Blaine. And unlike all of them, he hadn't done a single selfless deed with his powers.

Artie was helping to develop clean, renewable energy that could change the entire world. Brittany and Puck cleaned up the pond scum of the city, all those baddies that were too low-brow for the superstar heroes to care about. Although Rachel cared far more for fame and glory, she'd certainly put herself at risk to help people, and for all that they'd called the girls on their seeming materialism, Santana and Quinn had still faced down plenty of villains during their time on the air. Besides that, Tina couldn't deny the impact that Santana and Brittany's relationship had made on a lot of scared little girls across the country. Her own investigative firm had helped people that no one cared about, and thrown a rope to those invisible people of the big city who were about to fall off a cliff.

Even Kurt, Tina acknowledged grimly, had done an awful lot of good before someone murdered him. He'd just never come back from that. 

She would do a better job saving Mike.

And then there was Jesse: selfish, shallow, arrogant Jesse. It wasn't right to torture people, but if she had to make him scream as payment for getting back Mike, that was well worth it. Mike was worth a hundred of Jesse, easy, and it was so like Jesse to not see that. Getting those books might well be the single most worthwhile thing he'd ever done with his life. 

"Did you return it?" Tina asked as she zipped her bag. That boy's book had been useless to her, and her inherent sense of fairness had kicked in. She _had_ taken it, after all, and stealing from the library system could leave him with quite a hefty fine. 

"I did," Jesse said. "There's no task to which I'd rather apply my enormous talents than being your errand boy."

Tina adjusted her gloves like they'd personally offended her. They were fingerless, so that she could still use her powers. Winter was a colder season for her than for other people. "I have to go save my boyfriend from hell, Jesse. Now is seriously not the time to push me."

His hands went up like she was a cop with a gun. "My mistake. I never meant to provoke you."

After a second's consideration, she actually believed him. Some people were so naturally clueless that they didn't even realize when they were offending anyone within audible range. "Well, I guess you can go home. Thanks again."

"I would, except I have this sudden urge to see if there are any shows being cast in Las Vegas right now." Jesse's smile quirked into something that she wanted to punch. "If things are going to be hot today, I'd rather it be because I was in the desert rather than in the middle of a spell gone horribly wrong."

"I'm not going to mess up," Tina said. She'd been comfortable with controlling those ghosts in Mrs. Walker's mansion, and wasn't this much the same thing? She'd pierced the veil between life and death once, and so she could do it again. Besides, she'd studied those stupid prophecies she'd memorized in Doctor Strange's house until they felt like they had their own magical energy, and she was just as comfortable with that. She could handle magic. She could handle all kinds of magic. She was ready for everything. And she was going to save Mike.

"Of course you're not going to mess up," Jesse said, and his smile turned even more punchable. "But I'm still going to see if any of those Cirque shows need a soloist."

"You do that," Tina said, and he vanished with that smirk on his face. For all she knew, he really had teleported himself to Las Vegas. Fine. Let him move to Nevada. She doubted that anyone here would miss him; it wouldn't be like Rachel disappearing and reappearing in London.

Tina hurried out of the alley and into the Bowery. Doctor Strange lived near NYU. Tina's apartment was a tiny walk-up that Mercedes had found on the muddled border between Chinatown and Little Italy. So that she could flee to her apartment if it were absolutely needed, Tina had chosen a spot in the middle of the two. In the worst case scenario, she could even rush back to Doctor Strange for help. She didn't plan to make that sort of mistake, but still, it always paid to be responsible. Tina glanced over her shoulder as she found the address she'd picked out earlier, and hurried up its stairs when she saw that no one was following.

Her time as a private investigator had taught her many things, and with only one soft, easy paycheck from the elite of the city under their belt, those skills had yet to fade. Online, Tina had found several discussions where a construction company didn't even realized how much information they'd spread about a building they were renovating. All of the spaces above her were empty, with two finished and ready to be shown after a final inspection. It was to one of those doors that she headed. No construction workers would be lingering there, and she wouldn't have to worry about accidentally kneeling on a rusty screw or bit of glass.

Another learned skill was lockpicking. She was hardly an expert, but she did well enough with easy tumblers. These were easy. It was the front door that was expected to deter any real criminals, and that was still open as the crew finished their work on the higher floors. Tina felt the knob turn and, with a smile, followed it inside. 

The space was empty and silent. Occasional hammering echoed from above, or traffic from below, but she'd long since learned to tune out the city. Tina closed the door behind her, locked it, and walked to the center of the room. Her iPhone screen was set to a blank white page, and with that light she began reading the books she'd taken from Doctor Strange's library. Occasionally, she used its translation software to figure out what she was reading in French. She didn't need that for the discussion of hells and their gates, and her eyes and fingers moved across its pages.

Slower than she liked, but faster than was prudent, Tina sought the spell to bring Mike home.

* * *

"Do you want to come to church this weekend?" Mercedes asked Sam as she sorted through her tiny kitchen. Tina's favorite meals might comfort her during these terrible times. Whatever they needed, Mercedes would buy, and then she would cook like she was auditioning for her own show on the Food Network. Efficiency was key to distracting one's self. Mercedes had learned that after Kurt.

"No," Sam said. Technically, his work day was still going, but he'd been sent out to interview people at an event that had already ended. There would only be ten minutes left by the time he fought his way back to the Bugle. Sam wouldn't normally risk angering his boss, but Mercedes supposed that dark times took their toll on everyone. Him turning down church had to be one of those signs. He loved a good sermon as much as she did, and of course there would be the guest that she couldn't believe he'd miss.

"Steve'll be there," Mercedes said, and jotted down 'bag - navy beans.' Slow cookers were perfect for soup in winter. Running through that complicated recipe kept her from thinking about what Mike had looked like as he clutched his throat and blood spilled between his fingers. Shuddering, she checked for all the other ingredients.

"I know," Sam said. "That's why I don't want to go."

Mercedes turned around and looked at him sharply. "You _don't_ want to spend time around Captain America?"

He shook his head.

"But why?"

"I don't know why I ever bought into this whole mess," Sam said quietly. "D'you know Steve lost pretty much everyone he cares about in the world? Why'd I want to be him so bad? Why'd I get his action figures when I was little?"

"Because he's a great guy?" Mercedes said. Taking a step toward Sam, she reconsidered and pulled out a carton of ice cream, instead. There was just enough left for him to have a decent-sized bowl. 

"They actually have a running joke about how many times that lady on the X-Men has died," Sam continued, like she hadn't said anything. "When do you think people stopped believing that this time, she might stick around and things might work out?"

If Sam Evans had given up on superheroes, then things were darker than she'd ever thought. "Here," Mercedes said. She handed him the bowl of ice cream when she took the seat next to him, and he started on it dutifully, like medicine. He was usually so strict about what he ate, but sometimes a person really just needed the biggest dessert they'd have all year.

"I don't want to go home," Sam admitted after a bite. "To that empty apartment."

His words hung heavy over her as she sought the right response. "You weren't there that year," Mercedes said, considering, "but after New Directions finished our first competition run together, we talked about what it had meant to us. It was a big deal for everyone. We didn't even know that we'd started off as friends by that point, and some of us still had a long ways to go to get back there, but we knew that this really mattered."

Sam nodded, but waited for her to get to the point.

"Well, Mike talked about how he had been too scared to dance outside of his own room." How had they ever been so young, sitting in that semi-circle on stage? She felt decades older.

"Really?" Sam asked.

"Yep. And you never would have guessed, huh?"

Sam shook his head.

Mercedes Jones had decided not to pursue the big, shiny heroics. Overall, it had worked out well for her. _Even though it didn't for Mike,_ a cruel voice whispered. She tried to ignore it. No, it hadn't worked for Mike, but who could have expected that? Who could have expected that Rachel, with her face on the news—if only in background shots—would make it through every twist and turn, and it would be Kurt with his work in the shadows who would fall in the line of duty? They'd done as well as they could, and that was the most anyone could do. "Well," Mercedes continued, and stole a bite of ice cream, "he was better each day than he was the day before. He liked himself more each day. He chased his dreams. He helped people, and at night he took Tina out dancing. You and him threw footballs in the park. We should have had him for longer, but let's be grateful for the time we had. Because it wasn't wasted."

Sam nodded, staring at his ice cream. Mercedes took another bite when she saw it starting to melt. "That was a pretty good speech."

"I kinda ripped off the one that my dad used when Grandpa Fred died."

"Good job with your speech, Mr. Jones."

"I'll be sure to tell him that."

Sam poked at the bowl with his spoon. "For a while I thought the two of us were going to break up. We never saw each other and... and there was this girl in the office."

Mercedes went very still. "Did you...?"

"No! No. I just... things were harder than I expected. And so I thought about her, since she was right there. It'd be easy." He exhaled and squared his shoulders. "But the hard stuff is worth it. The city's hard, but it's still worth it. You're so worth it." He managed a weak laugh. "And I'll even manage to convince myself that what superheroes go through is worth it. Maybe."

"Keep loving those heroes," Mercedes said with a kiss on the side of his head. "You wouldn't be you if you didn't. Don't let yourself be afraid to come out of your room, okay?"

Sam's phone rang on the coffee table. It didn't quite shatter the mood, since they'd come to a natural ending to her pep talk, but it came close. Leaning forward, Sam slapped it on without checking the name. "Hey, it's Sam."

"Uh. Yeah, so. Hey, I've got a bad feeling about a neighborhood I swung through while, you know, taking pictures."

Sam looked at Mercedes, then said, "Mercedes, this is Peter Parker. I work with him."

"Oh. Uh. Am I on speaker?" Peter asked.

"Hi, yep," Mercedes said.

There was a pause. "Okay. Thanks for letting me know," Peter said.

"So you... _swung_ through a neighborhood?" Sam asked, hitting the words hard, like they meant something. Mercedes eyed him.

"Yeah. You know, um, like I do," Peter said.

"Gotcha," Sam said, and looked ready to wink at the phone.

Whatever. Boys were weird.

"Well, I got this sense that something bad might be going down." Peter hit 'sense' hard, too, and Mercedes began to feel like there was definitely something that she was missing. Maybe they had a lot of in-jokes at the Bugle, to which only employees were privy. "And you're friends with superheroes, right?"

Sam glanced at Mercedes, and after a sheepish sigh, turned back to the phone. "Yeah, but I haven't talked to a lot of them in a while. And after Mike, we...." Choked up, he fell silent.

Mercedes took over. "Hi, Peter. I don't know how much of a hero I'd call myself, but I'll try to help out. What's wrong?"

"What can you do?" Peter asked, more bluntly than she'd expected from some average joe at Sam's work.

Still, he sounded concerned for all the right reasons, and she decided to play along. He'd apparently been working at the Bugle for a while. Sam had talked about seeing superheroes overhead plenty of times, from Iron Man to Spider-Man to Ms. Marvel. If Peter had a few years' experience on Sam, it stood to reason that he might actually be somewhat of an expert on what things were like when heroes and villains really came out to play. "Energy shields, and if I can get enough time to build it up, a big energy blast."

"Shields are good," Peter said after a considering beat. "Okay, any chance you can call anyone else in?"

Names ran through her mind and were just as quickly discarded. She didn't know what to make of anyone who believed that the person in that office had really been Kurt, and so as much as it hurt to write all of them off, Mercedes pushed Finn, Puck, Rachel, and the Kurt... thing away. Maybe the first three could be trusted, and maybe not, but now wasn't the time to put that to the test. If Kurt had come back so clearly wrong and they were on his side, the outlook was grim. 

_Mike tried to hold his throat closed as he died._

She would never forget that.

Tina was still out walking her grief away, like she'd told them as she slipped out the door. Who knew if NBC would let their shining stars actually deal with any bad guy who didn't already have brand recognition? "Maybe Artie," Mercedes said uncertainly. He might have some scanners to track down this threat, at least. That could be useful. She supposed.

After another second, she decided to risk calling Santana. They'd reconnected after their falling out, or at least it felt like they had. If their groups' old bonds meant anything, the trio should at least try to get out of whatever photoshoots or press conferences they were in, and help Mercedes hunt down potential threats in a search that really mattered. "And I'll call Santana, Brittany, and Quinn," she decided. "Between all of us, I'm sure we can handle it."

"Oh, those three?" Peter asked. "I, uh, met them at a party. They didn't seem very heroic," he said. He quickly amended that with, "But they were nice!" The damage had clearly been done, though, during the height of their champagne and caviar days. They were television heroes, no more real than Sydney Bristow or Jack Bauer. 

Mercedes decided to share that with the girls. Considering how pissed off they'd been at how their bosses were controlling them, it'd probably be a hell of a motivator. "They're heroes," she said firmly. "Brittany's fearless, Quinn's smart, and nobody messes with Santana. We can handle it. Don't worry."

"Okay, thanks. I gotta go. Jameson's waiting on these pictures."

"You're coming?" Mercedes asked as Sam hung up the phone and stuck his remaining ice cream in the freezer, still in its bowl. 

"I kind of owe it to Peter after something I said earlier," Sam said. "But...."

"I'll shield you if anything happens, don't worry," Mercedes said, watching Sam unconsciously press his hand against the scar in his side. "How'd he know to look around there?" she wondered as they grabbed their coats. "And seriously, can we trust his 'sense' enough to really start calling everyone?" After the assault on their office, she was a true believer in the idea of sudden disaster striking. Still, it was tough to believe that someone could simply point to where trouble would happen.

"Totally, yeah. Peter, uh, has sources," Sam said. "We're journalists. That's what we do. We journalize."

"I don't think that's a word." She locked the door behind them. "Fine, don't tell me."

"Okay," Sam said, and rushed ahead before she could call him on it. 

Mercedes rolled her eyes, jammed her hands deep into her pockets, and followed. Truth be told, she was glad for the distraction. Their office had stood closed ever since the police and ambulance had arrived. She, Tina, and Finn knew without any discussion that their door marked with the 'Chang • Cohen • Chang Agency' would never be opened again. Whether they'd even try to restart their business was uncertain, but if they did, it certainly wouldn't be where Mike had.... Shivering, Mercedes zipped her coat further up, so it was tight against her throat.

They certainly wouldn't go back to where Mike had _stopped._ Maybe she and Tina could do something in the future. Maybe they'd bring in Sam. Who knew?

"Hey, Santana," Mercedes said as she was routed to voice mail. "Um, a guy you invited to your party once apparently thinks I need your help...."

* * *

Most civilians weren't allowed into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s North American headquarters, but didn't have a mother who wore its logo on her shoulders. Finn stepped through the metal detector and flinched when it sounded. Every time. His keys went onto a tray, the agent holstered the gun she'd half-drawn, and he made it inside without further issue.

He hadn't visited that often, and the last trip to the building had been to share the horrible news of Kurt's death among their family. _I should come by more_ , Finn thought miserably. He was only there because he had more bad news to tell to his mother. 

When the group that would later be known as New Directions had first received their powers, Finn was the first to discover his. After being hit by a wave of energy at their parents' work, they'd almost been expecting something to happen, despite the reassurance that everything was under control. Still, on that first day, nothing happened. They began to believe what they'd been told.

Later, they learned that their powers needed that day to germinate. If Santana had tried, after that, she could have thrown a fireball. Mercedes could have put up a shield. Why would they try, though? 

Finn's powers were much easier to discover by accident. At the end of a long day he'd collapsed onto the bottom bunk of their shared bed, but sleep didn't come. It took its time on the days when he'd pushed himself too hard playing pick-up games in the park. Kurt came to bed and Finn grumbled as even the faint shifting of the bed frame under his brother's slight weight seemed to pin him further in the waking world.

"Good night," Kurt said in that sing-songy way he sometimes had. It had probably been a fun day looking at some fancy exhibits or window displays with one of the girls from school. Finn loved his brother, and he'd kick anyone's ass who hassled him, but sometimes he didn't understand how two such different people could come out of the same mom. He didn't understand why Kurt sometimes talked about Los Angeles, either, since he seemed to love living in New York. Long story short, he thought as he yawned, he had a weird brother.

He had a weird brother who would not stop singing showtunes. "Seriously?" Finn asked the underside of Kurt's bed. "I mean, seriously?"

Kurt's upside-down head appeared. "What?"

"Stop singing," Finn tiredly demanded.

After a short pause, Kurt said, sounding honestly surprised, "I'm sorry, I thought that was in my head. It's how I count sheep. I run through one song from each Best Musical winner, in order, sometimes moving forwards and sometimes backwards—"

"I don't care," Finn whined. "I want to sleep."

Kurt's head retreated without further protest, but within a minute the showtunes started back up. Finn kicked the planks with his bare foot and Kurt reappeared, still upside down and now just as annoyed as Finn. "I was just thinking it, I know I was. So unless you can hear my...." After a worried beat when the scale balanced between concern over what might happen to them and delight in what they'd just discovered, grins spread. 

_That's how it was in Ohio,_ Finn thought as he waited on an elevator. _I heard his thoughts and figured out what was going on._ In Ohio, without any knowledge of how those powers might have arrived, it was something to fear. Were they mutants? Would they change physically? Would someone come for them? In New York, knowing perfectly well what they'd been hit with and that no side effects seemed to have followed, it was playtime. 

Lima, Ohio could fit into one tiny corner of New York City, though. Finn had heard stray mental voices in Lima, but it was nothing compared to the voices he was buffeted with as he tried to control his new powers in Manhattan. When the din grew too loud, he latched onto his sturdiest post like an anchor: Kurt, his twin brother, whose mind was easier to see than anyone's. Though Kurt wasn't especially fond of having Finn clinging to his brain like a psychic koala, he put up with it without too much complaint. That chance to reassert his defenses let Finn face the rest of the day without a migraine or nosebleed.

He'd become very good at reading Kurt's mind. Now, as he approached Carole's office, Finn knew exactly what Kurt had done over the time he was gone, even better than Kurt did. Kurt had shut himself down when things got too hard, but everything was lurking in there, waiting to be remembered with the right pressure.

And just as he knew all of that, Finn knew that Kurt couldn't handle it. He wasn't calling Kurt weak, because no one would be _weak_ to break under all of that. The only people who could handle everything without issue were... psychopaths or something, who didn't care at all that their own bodies had been used as weapons while they screamed silently inside them.

He expected to feel Carole brighten when the assistant announced his presence, but instead, she pulled back like a wound had been touched. Frowning, Finn went inside her small office and closed the door. "Hi, Mom."

"Finn," Carole said, and tried to smile. "I didn't know you'd be coming by."

"Is everything okay?" Finn asked. An official-looking file was spread on the desk in front of her.

"No," she admitted after a beat. "No, it's not."

"What's wrong?" he asked as he sat. 

Her mouth opened and closed, but then opened again. "I made a huge mistake," Carole said softly. "I can't even... I hate myself over this." She turned the file around so he could see. Finn leaned in and read, but nothing made any sense until she pointed to a name at the top of a report. "Jack," she said. "Kurt killed Jack."

Finn thought back to the man his brother had dated, with his easy-going nature and the way he'd always shown Finn any new gadgets he had to share. Then, like finding the right piece in a jigsaw puzzle, he found him again in the bundle of Kurt's memories in his mind. It had blended into the mass of destruction, unnoticed. "There's a lot of stuff that really hurt him," Finn began, not sure of how to say this. 

Because now, he agreed with what Burt had said in the anguish of learning that his son was dead. Someone had to take the blame, and in Kurt's eyes, Doom was a force of nature as impossible to resist as an earthquake or tidal wave. S.H.I.E.L.D. was the group that had let him go off alone. Their supposedly unbreakable locks had been opened. And now, Finn suspected, the only way that Kurt could manage to live the rest of his life was if he ignored his powers, set down every weapon he owned, and walked away for good. He needed to ask Carole, the loyal S.H.I.E.L.D. employee, to convince Kurt to break his contract, and he had no idea how to do it.

At least he wasn't just powering through without thinking, Finn thought, thanks to Emma. He needed to send her a fruit basket or something.

"I could have found him earlier," Carole said into the silence left by Finn's thoughts. "It just... we've had assaults on tech bases before, Finn. They've always been sent by some other company to kill the competition. And Jack was there with three industry people, so I didn't even bother to read his name. I just knew that the agent on guard had kept them safe, and that the other three had been the targets. I sent it on to another department and they didn't know why Jack mattered. But if Kurt died, and right after that I'd seen that Jack was shot twice by someone who handled that gun like a trained sniper...."

Finn didn't say anything.

"I don't know that it would have helped," Carole admitted. "But maybe we would have started looking earlier. Maybe." Her fingers traced the name of the man Kurt had loved and killed. "Maybe."

 _Now's not the time to talk about Kurt leaving S.H.I.E.L.D.,_ Finn decided. He'd come there on a mission, but he hadn't expected Carole to be like this. It was time to react. Time to waterbend. "Mom, are you okay?"

"Of course I'm okay," Carole said. "I just... I just wish that I'd caught this."

"You don't feel okay," Finn said dubiously, not harsh enough to sound like he was outright calling her on lying.

Carole's jaw worked for a bit, and then she looked down. When she spoke, it was toward her desk. "I'm so tired. I've been strong for everyone and I just have to keep going, because no one else is going to pick up the weight if I don't. And I'm not blaming you for it, or Burt, but he got to shut down. You did, too. I had to make sure the bills were paid and the dogs were walked. Sometimes Burt would go out with them twice in one evening because he got it in his head that he could _make up_ for everything. But then sometimes he'd stay at work, instead, and I had the dogs. And they needed to be walked."

"I'm sorry," Finn said.

"It's not your fault," Carole said, but he saw a tear fall and felt like absolute garbage.

_I made Mom cry._

"Having you boys is the best thing that ever happened to me," Carole said in increasingly jerky breaths. "And all I want is to have my family happy and safe and home at Christmas. We can even have those stupid dogs." She wiped her eyes. "They're not stupid. I love them. But they're not you."

Finn struggled for something to say. _If she's crying so hard, why does she think it's good that they got us?_ Their parents weren't their birth parents, after all. They'd signed a government contract, and some of them had declared their duties ended as soon as their children hit eighteen years old. 

"Oh, Finn," Carole said, and he cursed himself as he realized he'd thought that too loudly. "Someday you'll understand why your baby can make you feel worse than anything, and you're still glad that they're there to do it."

 _So long as we don't die again._ She had no idea that he'd died, and he was pretty sure that she was never, ever going to find out. "Mom?" he asked.

She looked up to see him holding out his arms. Carole managed to smile through her tears, but when she came around to his side of the desk, she nearly collapsed into him. Her exhausted sobs didn't hit him as deeply as when he felt Kurt's pain, with no mental connection by blood, but it still ached.

 _And I'm still glad that I'm here to feel it_ , he realized, echoing her words. Emma was right. This was his kind of heroism: finally letting someone cry out the pain they'd thought they had to shoulder. Finding kids who no one cared about, and who no one praised him for finding.

"I'm sorry," Carole said when she finally stopped crying and pulled back. His shirt was wet. "My makeup must be a mess."

Finn tried to tell her that it was fine, but she did sort of look like the Joker.

"Thank you," she said after he got a few encouraging words out, and wiped at her face with a kleenex. "See, this is why family's important." She patted his cheek. "Even if you pick them."

"Let me," he offered when she started with another kleenex, but Carole hesitated.

"Sweetie, you did plow a car into a mailman," she said when he got his hands too near her eyes.

"Oh," Finn said, and gave her back the kleenex. Fair enough. "That really happened?"

Carole dabbed at the last makeup streaks. "In our second week in Ohio. I thought they'd pull me from the program."

"Well, I'm glad they didn't," Finn said.

"Hudson?" the assistant asked, and both Finn and Carole turned. By the time that Finn realized that she had to be referring to Carole and probably just didn't like to say her full, hyphenated name each time, she was already handing over files. "Take a look at this." Although she clearly noticed Carole's rumpled state, she didn't say anything. Finn decided that he liked her.

"What's going on?" Carole asked.

"We've got energy surges downtown. Two sources, we're trying to pinpoint them. It sounds like they're sending out street teams and they want you to coordinate."

"Sorry, sweetie," Carole said, and got on her toes to kiss Finn on his cheek. "Thank you for stopping by, but I need to handle this." 

"Sure." He turned to leave, but she caught his hand.

"How about this weekend, or... or as soon as Kurt's up for it, I do a make-up Christmas dinner, okay?" Her eyes glistened again. "His dad'd really like that."

Finn swallowed back his comments on how he doubted that Kurt would ever want to step outside of the building unless he was forced to, and smiled. "Yeah, and there's no one who Kurt likes better than Burt, right?"

"Right," Carole said, like everything was settled, and went to work on whatever was about to attack New York.

* * *

"Hold on," Brittany said as the three girls were dropped in front of their destination. "I recognize that guy."

Quinn and Santana looked at each other and shrugged. As Brittany didn't seem to think the man was any real threat, both stood back to watch her work.

Stomping over to him like an irate mother catching her child at something naughty, Brittany grabbed the back of his jacket as he waited for the light to turn. He yelped and some of the other waiting pedestrians scattered, but Brittany waved her hand and the ground under his feet became an oil slick. Whoever he was, he was small, and he had no hopes of overcoming both Brittany and that poor footing. "Who the hell... oh no," he moaned when he turned to see who had him.

"No," Brittany chided him in the exact tone of voice that she would use for a bad dog.

"You?" he asked, sounding almost betrayed that she was in Midtown Manhattan. "You work in Queens!"

"I work everywhere. I just like Queens because then I get to wear my outfit with a crown." Brittany held out her hand. "Give it." When he hesitated, her hand started glowing. "Do you want to turn into something gross? Because I think I can probably do that."

Swearing, he reached into his oversized pockets and shoved something at her. Smiling, Brittany walked back to Quinn and Santana with it in hand. "Okay, I'm ready to go."

"Wow," Quinn said. "I didn't realize that people thought you were such a badass." Truth be told, she'd let most of Brittany's work fall under her radar. So long as Brittany stayed safe and unhurt, and she never got a call from Santana asking her to come look for her missing girlfriend, she'd never really bothered to wonder what Brittany did with herself all day, every day. "Have you rounded up a lot of drug dealers?" she asked, assuming that was what Brittany had confiscated. 

"Not many," Brittany said. She cracked open the box he'd given to her and showed them a slippery pile of pills. If their appearance was supposed to mean something to Quinn, she didn't know what. "I let the police get the guys who sell heroin and stuff because they care the most about those laws, but I don't want to let anyone make money off this."

"What is it?" Santana asked.

"MGH," Brittany answered, and shut the box. "Mutant Growth Hormone."

"Oh," Quinn said. The name meant nothing to her.

"They take it out of actual mutants," Brittany continued, and both Quinn and Santana paled. "Or anyone with superpowers, but mostly mutants because no one cares about them. I think Tina and Finn and Mercedes and... and Mike saved some mutants who got kidnapped for it." Her good mood fled at the mention of Mike's name. She closed the box again and stowed her prize.

"They kidnap people and take this _out_ of them?" Santana repeated.

"Yeah." Brittany's nose wrinkled. "It's super gross."

Quinn was stuck on the idea of 'anyone with superpowers.' She'd mostly given up any desire of ever seeing the girl she'd birthed, as her life had moved past that, but she was still struck with instinctual fear over whatever someone would do to harvest powers from a vulnerable child. _Seeing her screaming inside a glowing portal probably has a way of making that stick in your mind._ She shook it off; after all, Beth hadn't developed whatever her powers would be, yet, and so she wouldn't be at risk.

That didn't mean that a lot of innocent people hadn't been harvested in the meantime, though. That didn't mean that she and Santana hadn't ignored even more of the people who had needed them in that city.

"Let's go," Quinn said, nodding up at the Baxter Building. When she caught Santana's eye, the other woman was just as deeply in thought as she was. "How many mutants do you think we could have helped?" she asked as they walked to the elevator. Two frightened faces in Columbus filled her memories, from the very first night that the Awesomes had gone out together. They hadn't worked to help people like that for a very long time.

"All of them," Santana said, and that seemed to be that. They rode up to their destination in silence.

"Hi," Brittany said when they walked into a glossy lab. She held out her box to a tall, slender man who Quinn recognized from the news: Reed Richards, one of the members of the Fantastic Four and probably the smartest man alive. "I grabbed MGH off a guy on the street. Maybe you can do something with it?"

"Nasty stuff," Reed agreed, and set it aside. 

Brittany seemed happy to be rid of it, and started looking around the lab even as Reed told her to be careful. Quinn and Santana made a more measured inspection. It was a sleek, airy space that reminded Quinn of something that Apple might design. It looked on the cutting edge of future technology, which was only appropriate for a man who was the ultimate guiding force behind Artie's huge energy project. Like her thoughts had summoned him, Artie rolled around a corner and smiled.

"Hey," he said as he rolled to Reed and handed him something. Apparently, his role that evening was of a dutiful assistant. Brittany hugged Artie, while Santana and Quinn contented themselves with waves.

"I asked Arthur to help me with this," Reed explained. Artie wore the pained smile of someone who disliked the name he'd been called but didn't dare offer a correction. "For the same reason as you three were asked, really. He knows the subjects."

"Subjects?" Quinn asked, frowning. She'd thought it was Kurt coming by. Were they mistaken?

"I understand that someone else has exposed himself to bodily—"

"Got it," Santana and Quinn said in loud unison. Brittany nodded and mouthed 'nice.'

"Fill them in on what they'll be doing, Arthur," Reed said, and then busied himself at a far end of the lab.

Artie shot a wry glance at the man, then rolled to join the girls. "He's a really fun boss to work for."

"Easier than Coach Sue," Santana said with a nostalgic grin, which he returned.

 _Artie looks so comfortable,_ Quinn thought as he began his lecture on their duties that evening. More than anyone else she knew, he'd somehow slotted himself into the perfect post-high school path. It seemed almost unfair, because she couldn't point to any of the specific decisions he'd made that let him lead that perfect life. Brittany and Rachel came the closest, but without Santana's salary, Brittany wouldn't have the freedom she did, and Rachel's life could have easily have turned as violent as Kurt's.

Coming together after Kurt's death had been almost like a high school reunion: they got to see who'd succeeded and who was still struggling. Shouldn't they all rise together, though? They'd been empowered together. They'd fought together, been hidden together, and saved the world together. _Maybe that's the difference,_ Quinn thought with a sad smile. Artie had kept in touch with everyone almost equally, even though his duties kept him busy. She found it oddly comforting to decide that yes, that explained why some of their lives had worked better than others'. It was like she'd found a treasure map that could be used again.

"Okay, so here's the deal," Artie said, and took a deep breath. "I know it might be hard, but you're here because you might need to... um... that is...."

"If Kurt goes crazy, we put him down," Santana said. Her eyes were flat, even when Brittany looked at her in shock.

_We forgot to tell Brittany that part._

"Right," Artie said.

"I don't want to kill him," Brittany said. "I haven't even seen him again, yet. I want to give him a hug, not kill him."

"We probably won't need to," Quinn assured her.

"Kurt'll be on that thing over there," Artie said, gesturing to what looked like some high-tech version of a dentist's chair, but with shackles at the wrists and ankles. "And you'll, um...."

"Watch and wait to charbroil him." Santana shrugged at the dark looks she earned. "I'm not happy about it. But he killed Mike, you guys. We need to be ready for this. If we hesitate, he could do the same to us."

"People were hurting him, Santana," Brittany said. "It wasn't his fault."

"And if he took my head off, would you be able to remember that?" Santana asked.

Brittany didn't have an answer for her. 

"Someone needs to watch Puck, too," Quinn said quietly. "If you try to hurt Kurt...." The conclusion went unsaid: Puck would react just as fiercely as Brittany would if someone tried to hurt Santana. No, worse than hurting. They would be killing Kurt right in front of Puck. To save their own lives, they'd probably have to end his, too.

Quinn hadn't heard the specifics of how Mike's death had played out, but she knew it had taken place in their office, in front of Tina. She wouldn't be surprised if Tina had tried to take out her rage on Kurt. Sam and Mercedes weren't yet all that serious, and Finn and Rachel acted like they would be together forever but kept living their own lives, but these three couples seemed to be in it for the long haul already. And Tina's future had been taken from her, right in front of her eyes. Yes, they needed to plan for Puck. "Brittany and I will watch Puck," Quinn decided.

"I hit harder," Santana said. That was true. Quinn could wrap someone in ice or flash-freeze someone's limb solid, but for sheer destructive force, Santana's powers were better. Normally, if they were concerned about someone in shackles versus someone free, Santana would be the one to watch the bigger threat.

But Quinn knew how Puck looked when he really cared about someone. It was rare, and she'd never seen it directed at herself like she'd watched him look at the child they'd created. When Puck wholly let someone in, they became more important than him. Kurt was in that place, as close to his heart as anyone. Santana could set Puck on fire but he'd take them with him as he burned.

No, Quinn needed to watch Puck, and she explained as much to the others. Because she could stop him in his tracks, even if she had to kill him more slowly after that.

 _This is your life,_ Quinn's mind sing-songed at her, but she accepted their duties grimly. This felt like her old leadership on the Cheerios. After the frivolous turn their lives had taken on Unmasked, she didn't even mind the discussion of something darker and deadlier. She hoped they could make it through that night without anyone else dying, but they still needed to be prepared.

"I hope he's not evil," Brittany sighed as they saw the elevator numbers rising again.

"You and me both," Artie said.

"So," Santana asked as they waited for their visitors to arrive, "how's the project going?"

Artie glanced down at the tablet computer in his hands. "Well, um, there are some weird energy surges going on in the city right now, and they'd destabilize any work. I'd try to track down their source if we weren't busy here, and you're not really interested, are you?"

"I am so not interested, and you totally don't recognize a cue for, like, five words of small talk."

"I'm so glad I'm your friend," Artie said.

Santana beamed at him like she either didn't recognize or didn't care about his sarcasm. As she did, something in Quinn's gut began to tighten.

 _Kurt shouldn't be alive, should he?_ She knew that Mercedes had issues with resurrection. So did Quinn, but it had always been a hypothetical discussion. Now, Mercedes was locked firmly into the 'bad' camp as she supported Tina through her rough times, but Quinn was left adrift in a sea of theological uncertainty. Kurt had died, and that should be the end of it. He'd been brought back by someone wholly evil, and that should set things even more. The younger her, the girl who wore her youthful certainty and a cross necklace as a shield, would have called Kurt evil to his face.

It was so easy to be a kid, Quinn thought as the elevator opened and she saw the face of someone whose funeral she'd attended. In that second, she realized how hard their task could be. The world made so much more sense wrapped up in the ignorance of youth. 

"Hi," Kurt said as he stepped out of the elevator. He looked scared, and his voice shook.

Puck's arm across his shoulders guided him into the room. "No sudden movements, no sudden anything," Puck said to all of them in a low, serious voice. "You got it?"

"Yeah, is that what you told him before Mike?" Santana asked. Although she immediately got a sour look on her face, like she wished she hadn't, the words were there. For a long beat Quinn expected a fight to break out.

Brittany broke the tension with the hug she'd promised Kurt. "I tried to bring you back," Brittany said, and pulled back just as Quinn noticed panic beginning to build in Kurt's expression. _He really doesn't want to be out here, does he?_ "But it was too hard. I tried every week, I think."

"Well, after a while, I was already back," Kurt said with a tight, nervous smile.

"That probably made things harder," Brittany agreed.

"Hey, man," Artie said, but didn't extend his hand to be shaken, whether out of precaution for whatever might be lurking inside Kurt or courtesy after noticing how Brittany's hug had affected him. "You'll be on that... thing."

Kurt nodded and walked without protest toward what Quinn still wanted to call an evil dentist's chair. "Hello," Reed said as he checked on everything. "I'm Reed Richards. S.H.I.E.L.D. asked me to check up on you, and take care of any lingering signs of Doom. Rest assured, no one knows him better than I do. And he might be smart, I certainly won't deny that, but I'm smarter."

"I hope so," Kurt said, and let himself be strapped in. Puck sat on the edge of a desk and watched nervously. "They thought my building was secure, but someone still got in. Finn told me. I mean, he didn't tell me the specifics, because I got the feeling that they would upset me, but...."

"I'm smarter than he is," Reed assured him again.

"He totally is," Artie promised, and smiled up at Reed like a teenage crush.

"You're the other potential subject?" Reed asked, glancing at Puck.

"I guess, yeah."

Reed held up a syringe full of a silvery grey liquid. "So you've been exposed?"

"Yeah," Puck said, and shrugged. "Whatever Kurt's going through, I can take it, too."

"I didn't want him to," Kurt said instantly. "I tried to keep him away. Really."

Reed walked around his console and studied Puck, and then reached out to twist a monitor toward him. With his stretching power, his arm was able to move more than twenty feet to make that adjustment. Quinn fought back a shudder; it looked creepy. Whatever was on those monitors apparently pleased Reed, and he nodded. "I doubt you've been infected with any of the last nanobots," he said, "given how low Kurt's levels are, but it is better to be on the safe side. These will scour your system for any of Doom's 'bots and self-destruct when their job is done."

"So I'll have a lot of little dead robots inside me?" Puck asked, frowning. "Or are they going to blow up? Because that sounds like that'd hurt."

"Each individual one is miniscule. Cell-sized. Smaller, really, and they'll just power down. When they're only refuse, it'll be collected and ejected like any other bodily waste."

"I'm going to shit robots?" Puck said, and Quinn couldn't tell whether the idea intrigued or horrified him.

"I... something like that." Reed checked the syringe, and as he did, Quinn just caught him muttering about how the boy reminded him of his brother-in-law. It didn't sound like an especially flattering comparison.

"Wait," Kurt said, sounding displeased as the scanners whirred above him. "You're going to inject me with more of these?"

"It's safe," Reed instantly said.

Quinn looked between them. Kurt had sweat beading on his upper lip. _He doesn't want those in him._ Although she walked over to Kurt and let him squeeze his hand, her mind was pulled between two unfortunate options. One, he might be flashing back to whatever Doom had put him through, and saw those as just another vector for being controlled. But two, if he was evil and hiding it, he might be reacting poorly to a real, physical sign that he was about to be cured. She wished she knew for sure.

Kurt began, "But how do you know that—"

"Because I designed these," Reed said shortly. "I don't make mistakes." He turned to Puck. "Where was the exposure?"

"Why's it matter?" Puck asked.

"If there are any inside you, they'll take a while to spread. It's good sense to inject you closer to the exposure site." When Puck still stared blankly at him, Reed, annoyed, gestured to Puck's mouth, then down around his hips, and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"You are a fucking weirdo," Puck told him when that sunk in. Reed wiggled the syringe again, and Puck, annoyed, pointed to his mouth. "We kissed."

"Then it's almost impossible that anything spread just from that," Reed said. "But, to be on the safe side, uncover your arm." In the end, Puck wound up taking his heavy winter sweatshirt entirely off. Reed swabbed his arm with alcohol and stabbed him with the syringe in two neat motions. "This will hurt quite a lot," he admitted when the grey liquid was already halfway inside Puck. 

Kurt's fingers interlaced through Quinn's, and his breathing sped. She squeezed back. _He should be dead,_ she thought again, but it mattered less, now.

"No kidding," Puck said, shifting back and forth and making the face of someone hiding how much pain he was in. 

Reed didn't seem to care.

"This is gayer than when I've got a dick up my ass," he complained as the syringe retreated and he rubbed furiously at the injection point. Reed left without an apology. Quinn just resisted the urge to snort. Noah Puckerman: always dependably crude when he didn't want to be somewhere.

"Totally," Santana agreed as she looked between where Puck was wincing and Brittany was watching him like a hawk, just in case she needed to attack. "I mean... except for, uh, that part."

Kurt closed his eyes and blushed fiercely. His hand loosened around Quinn's, then tightened, like he wasn't sure whether to try to flee and hide or hold on for dear life.

"Don't use that word, Puck," Quinn said, and felt very much like the group's mom. It helped distract her from how pinkly she was blushing, too.

"She's always like this with _naughty_ words," Santana smirked.

Artie and Brittany looked between everyone, then to each other. "Gotta be honest, that's not how I would have expected things to go," Artie said. "If it was something that I'd pictured. Which I don't. Ever."

"I do," Brittany said. "I've had _ideas._ "

"Please don't share."

Reed, frowning, raised his head over the console he was working on. With his powers, he was able to raise _only_ his head, and it bobbed distractingly on the end of his elongated neck. "This is rather inappropriate, you know. Arthur, are your friends always like this?"

Artie looked around, and a slow grin built. "Yeah, pretty much. It's awesome." Quinn knew what he meant—that they'd gone too long without spending time together like they used to—but Reed still seemed displeased at the rampant display of inappropriate youth in his lab.

"Mr. Richards?" asked Kurt quietly. They stopped and turned to him. "Can you program those nanobots to behave in certain ways?"

"Doctor. And I can program them to do anything I want, yes."

Kurt rolled his head to the side. Quinn studied his profile, hating that she had to try to figure out whether it was Kurt asking these questions or something looking for a weakness among them. It looked so much like him. But how could it be? "Doom's going to come for me, isn't he?"

Reed studied his monitors for a long beat.

"You know him. He hates you. You know how he acts. He's not going to let me go, is he?"

"He might," Reed finally said. "When something else distracts him. But the odds are, he is going to track you down and try to recapture you, yes. He hates to lose. And he'll know that you won't stand a chance against him." 

"He's not getting through me," Puck instantly said. Although Brittany and Santana both seemed pleased at the certainty in Puck's voice, Kurt shook his head. 

"Dr. Richards?" Kurt asked. "Can you please program them to kill me if he gets close? And make sure that he couldn't recover anything that he could use?"

The lab was absolutely still. Quinn stared at Kurt, but he was utterly calm. Her gaze moved to her other friends. All were silently horrified; none worse than Puck, who looked like Kurt was dying in front of him.

 _Like Tina saw happen to Mike,_ Quinn reminded herself, but it was a losing battle.

"I don't want to let him use me to hurt people again," Kurt explained into the silence.

"Yes, I can do that," Reed said, and started typing into his control panels. After requested, Artie joined him, but he looked shaken and distracted.

"It's really you in there, isn't it?" Quinn asked with a soft, sad smile. The Kurt she knew would sacrifice himself like that, no questions asked.

"You can't do this," Puck demanded from Kurt's other side, where he'd run to. He looked ready to rip apart the table and carry Kurt out of the lab before Richards could stop them.

"I want to," Kurt promised him. "And it's the right thing to do. So long as I stay safe, it'll be fine. All right?"

That didn't reassure Puck, Quinn could see, but he also didn't argue. Either he was waiting for privacy later, or he heard something in Kurt's voice that said arguing was a lost cause. "Fine. I'm quitting. I'll call in and say I'm done. I'm not leaving your side, because you're going to stay safe and _this_ is never gonna happen. You got me?"

Kurt nodded, but his eyes were sad. He couldn't look less like he believed Puck if he screamed defiance in Puck's face. Kurt was taking responsibility for others, and it was the right thing to do, but it was also one of the worst things she'd ever seen.

At some point, wasn't someone supposed to come in and tell them that everything would be all right? Around her, all of her friends looked uncomfortable. Artie, with his forced smile, looked like he was trying to pretend that Kurt hadn't made the request at all. That made sense. Artie's life had worked out. He'd be the last person who'd think that any of them had hit such a dangerous place that they wanted their entire body to turn into a cyanide capsule.

"This is hard," Quinn admitted as she thought about friends she'd started to make at NYU, who had been quietly dropped because they didn't fit her new life. Even older friends had suffered the same fate, and they'd made no secret of how much it hurt them. Class schedules that pulled her toward a hundred different careers, parties that she didn't want to attend, and everyone convinced that what she really needed to be happy was some man's strong arm around her shoulders, ASAP. "Is this what being an adult means?"

It was a foolish question to ask, but the scientist working on Kurt was Reed Richards, quite possibly the most intelligent person on the planet. If anyone knew the answer to just how they were supposed to make it through their twenties relatively unscathed, surely he must.

"Being an adult," Reed said as he adjusted a few knobs on the scanning machine, "is uncertainty and responsibility. It's consequences. But it's also setting your own path, and seeing how you're able to change the world for the better. Wrench."

Artie rolled from desk to platform and handed it to him.

Reed took it without a thank-you. "It's not a surprise that you'd find things to be difficult. You spent years with your life under the government's thumb, acting exactly like they wanted you to act. Now, you suddenly have all the freedom in the world. Some people manage to find a path they're happy with right off the bat." He nodded to Artie, who smiled back. "Or am I assuming incorrectly?"

Artie shook his head. His gaze neatly avoided Kurt, no matter how he turned. "Nope. Couldn't be happier unless I had a puppy made out of other puppies. Hey, can we do that?"

"Yes," Reed said absent-mindedly as he worked, "but it'd wind up as an ungodly creation from another dimension."

That was when the sky exploded and fire ripped through the heavens. Artie nearly spun himself out of his chair, the girls lunged toward the window, and Puck threw himself over Kurt as Kurt's limbs jerked uselessly against his restraints. Alarms wailed and Reed scrambled to take readings on whatever was out there.

As they watched, a building in the distance melted under the energy pouring from the dimensional rip above it. A volcano edged with flickering hellfire had opened above downtown Manhattan, and the world below it caught fire.

"Okay. I definitely don't want that ungodly puppy," Artie said as the city began to burn.


	19. Falling

On the way back from Providence, news about what was happening with Kurt had been sent to Rachel's phone. She knew that he was being transported from his apartment to the Baxter Building, and that in there he'd be cured. Rachel also knew that Blaine wouldn't be allowed past the Baxter's lobby until Kurt was properly vaccinated against whatever Doom had left inside him. 

So, they'd dawdled. The 95 took them through New Haven. That served as ample excuse to drive to Yale's campus and compare it with Blaine's school. He wasn't a fan. "Brown's sort of unique among the Ivies, you know," he'd said. His expression as he surveyed the buildings was very odd, as if he didn't like Brown even though he was praising it. 

Now they were in a coffee shop in a little town called Stamford, working on their third cups and second muffins. Rachel wanted to stop drinking, because otherwise they were destined for scary gas station bathrooms before New York. The owners already looked annoyed at them for lingering as long as they had, though, and she figured that it was better to keep feeding money into their till.

Blaine, although she'd expected him to be pushing her to get to the city, was happily using the shop's free wireless on his laptop. All day, Rachel had been trying to make sense of his behavior. First, at Brown, he wouldn't listen to her when she had the news about how Kurt was likely traumatized under Doom's command. Blaine thought he'd been handed a miracle and didn't want to listen to the reality. His smile adapted to new situations and topics as they arose, and sometimes softened or thinned, but never really left. 

She couldn't get anything through to him. 

"How hard is it to get around the city?" Blaine asked without looking up. "I've only been there in that town car that Kurt pulled for me back when I visited."

"Don't worry," Rachel said. "I'm quite knowledgable by now. I'll get us wherever we need to go quickly."

He looked up. "No, for me. On a regular basis."

"What?"

He turned his laptop and Rachel saw what he was looking at: browser tabs filled with many of the schools in the New York area. The one he was currently on talked about their transfer requirements. Worry began to burn low in Rachel's gut as Blaine explained himself. "I'd always planned to move to New York. My parents expected me to go to one of these schools."

"You're going to an Ivy League college," Rachel said, but she remembered how dismissive he'd looked of Brown earlier. "That's a big deal, Blaine, you can't just throw it away."

"They won't be happy about me transferring," he admitted. "But my avoiding New York took them by surprise. They didn't complain, though, because...." He exhaled, studied his cooling coffee for a long beat, and looked up. "After everything that happened with Kurt, they probably would have paid for me to study in England or Australia if it kept me away from him." He looked back at his laptop. "But I really think that everything can go back to how it should be, now. I don't think it even matters that much if I can't get into a real performance program, either. That's why I wanted to know whether it's hard to get around the city. If I need to, I'll just audition."

Rachel was finally able to cut in on his speech. "But why are you thinking about transferring back to New York right _now_?"

His expression answered her: because before, he'd run from Kurt. Now, having heard the good news, he wanted to run back.

"No," Rachel said.

He blinked. "No?"

"No. If you want to move to New York after you graduate, then fine. But moving now would be a terrible idea, and you should stop even considering it."

"I'm fixing a mistake. That's all. I want to be part of that city, and why not start making connections while I'm in school?"

"I am friends with a Norse god," Rachel said. "You shouldn't lie to me. His hammer is very heavy and he still doesn't understand computers."

"What am I lying about?" Blaine asked, spreading his hands and laughing. "I'll go to school there! I'll go to auditions, just like I'm telling you!"

"And you'll really move because you'll be trying to get Kurt back."

Blaine froze, and folded back in on himself. He sat for a while, considering his response, and said, "I thought he was dead."

"I know. We all did. He was."

"But you didn't feel it like I did," Blaine insisted.

"I have been friends with him since elementary school," Rachel said. "Don't try to say that it didn't matter to me."

"I'm sorry, that's not how I meant it. You... you had that past with him, Rachel. I was supposed to have a future." He swallowed hard. "But fear absolutely blinded me, and all I could think was that if I stayed near him, I wouldn't have a future of my own. At all."

"They're in love," Rachel said. "I have all the sympathy in the world for you, but Kurt has moved on, and he is in love with someone else."

"How?" Blaine asked, like someone demanding physical proof of their religion's god.

And there was the problem. He was so deeply into his emotions that no answer Rachel could possibly offer him would sound legitimate. She ran her hands through her hair in frustration.

"Sam was convinced that we were living a story," Blaine said after a short pause. "That we were characters in some big tale. We were the Gwen Staceys to your Spider-Mans. He was wrong about that, although we came closer than I ever want to see again."

"You _dumped_ Kurt because you couldn't stand to face that danger," Rachel reminded him. She'd loved the two of them together, yes, but Kurt was just as happy now.

"I made a mistake. I wasn't the one in real danger, Rachel. He was." Blaine smiled nostalgically at the coffee in front of him, like it meant something. "And do you want a real story? I can tell you about when we first met, or when we—"

"Stop it. Please. They're _happy._ You don't see that, because Kurt doesn't tell you about Noah. He knows that it hurts you." Kurt must have known that Blaine was still in love, and it had never left. Blaine had gone through a bad boyfriend at Dalton who made Kurt look all the better in comparison, and after that, dated someone who Blaine knew perfectly well was applying to a school on the other side of the country. Blaine had gone on with a life that was much the same before, during, and after Kurt, except without the boy he'd fallen in love with. He'd had that time to wonder if he'd made the right decision, and then Kurt had died and come back all off-stage, like some... like some character in a book. He must think that he'd been given a second, miraculous chance to set things right.

"I didn't tell him about who I dated, either," Blaine pointed out. "Because I knew it hurt him."

"Not in the same way," Rachel said firmly. Kurt had moved _on_ , because Blaine had made a decision for both of them that Kurt didn't want but understood. He was the one who'd moved to a new city, gotten a new job, and dated new men with an eye toward really making it work. Now, Kurt's job had led him into the lion's den, one of the men he'd dated was halfway around the world, and he'd suffered more trauma in a few months than most bigtime heroes did in their entire lifetimes. The only stability he had was his family, his friends, and the man he loved now, who was not the one sitting in front of Rachel in that coffeehouse. 

She saw him about to protest and slapped her hand against the table hard enough that the owner looked up. "You listen to me, Blaine Anderson," Rachel said in a low voice. "Kurt is in pain. I don't know everything that he went through, yet, and maybe I never will. I'm not Finn. I can't read his mind, and neither can you. But I do know that he's fragile and he needs stability and support right now, not to be pulled in some romantic tug of war."

"I care about him, Rachel. I'm not going to hurt him. What do you take me for?"

"But eventually, you're going to try to split up Noah and Kurt. Noah, the man to whom you owe your life." Her voice was sharper than she intended, but she'd been friends with Noah Puckerman much longer than Blaine Anderson. He'd just taken a bullet of his own, and then saved Kurt's life after that. Rachel had saved Kurt's life, too, with her CPR. They were making huge decisions about life and death while Blaine was making decisions about what classes to sign up for next semester. 

Blaine looked appropriately guilty at the reminder, but it was like gravity had taken over. He couldn't fight what was happening to him. "What's the one mistake you wish you could take back?"

Rachel didn't answer him, but she knew: telling Jacob about the Awesomes, and inadvertently leading Shelby back to Lima and to the torture and slaughter of those who might know their whereabouts. 

It seemed like Blaine could read minds, after all. At least, his acting classes had paid off, because he was able to give her a very knowing smile. "You'd change that if you could, wouldn't you? Well, I have to try. I'm not going to push. I'll just be there however he needs me, but I just want to let him know that I want to fix what I never should broken. If he'll let me."

"Do you want a story?" Rachel asked him after a long beat, as she remembered his discussion of Gwen Stacy. "I've watched a story of Noah being there for Kurt when no one else recognized he was hurting, not even me. Of him working for years to improve himself, and of them falling back into love like they had never left it."

"I have to try," Blaine said with the heartsick stubbornness of the teenager he still was.

She crumpled and flattened a napkin. "If you break him because you couldn't help but push, I will make you regret it for a very long time."

"I'm not going to push. I want to help him, Rachel, and that's all I'll do right now. I care about him." His whole face seemed to fold with sadness. "But he _came back to life._ This is a sign I need to take this second chance. And when it's safe, I'm going to do that."

"I suppose I can't stop you from trying," Rachel said, picturing all the times when Finn had stomped his way over to her building because Puck was once again staying over with Kurt, and Finn couldn't take the sensations that followed. This was going to be painful, and Blaine was going to lose after he'd let his hopes soar, and there was nothing she could really do to stop him. 

A dark flicker moved across Blaine's eyes. Rachel realized that he wasn't convinced of any eventual triumph, either. But he was stubborn and in love, and he had to try. "I really did alway wanted to move to New York, you know," he said. "I'm not just making it up now. I went anywhere else because it was too painful to be around him. Before he moved away... just being around Kurt was _constant_ pain here and here." He gestured above his heart, and then to the spot on his torso where Rachel knew a puckered bullet scar lingered. "I knew there was no way I could worry for years about getting hurt there again."

"What changed?" Rachel asked. She was tired, suddenly.

"I had a dozen messages from you and Mercedes," Blaine said, "telling me in tiny pieces that Kurt had died. I learned that this," he said, tapping his heart, and then moving down to his scar, "will always hurt worse than this."

"And what if he tells you that he's happy and in love with someone who's not you?" Rachel couldn't keep the sharp edge from her voice. This was hard for Blaine, she knew that, but it was like he was pretending that Puck was still gone, driving around the country. 

Blaine considered the question more seriously than she'd expected. "Then I'll spend hours making a very sad playlist and then put it on repeat. I might even dive into bad poetry, who knows? Maybe I'll get drunk, or crawl into bed for days, or go for runs until I get frostbite. But the one thing I won't do," he finished, "is regret the decisions I could have made."

* * *

Ten minutes before the sky exploded, Tina started crying.

_This is so hard._

For years, she'd manipulated energy. She could draw electricity into her body like sucking water through a straw. Life forces thrummed around her. Occasionally some hero would shoot past with bolts arcing from their hands, and it was like catching a whiff of some rare delicacy on the breeze. She knew what different kinds of energy felt like.

But never, in all those years, had she felt anything like this.

She didn't know where Mike was, and the books offered no clues. She'd never pulled Mike's lifeforce into her like she had to Kurt's in that office. Doing so could have been a risk to Mike, which was why she'd avoided it, but that meant that she had no familiar signature for which to look. Of the books she'd taken from Doctor Strange's, the one specifically about resurrections seemed to be more useful, but it was in French. Trying to use her iPhone's translation software wasn't good enough to pick up the subtleties of what the text suggested. Instead, she was stuck with the book on opening pathways into hell dimensions.

The worlds beyond those gateways were unimaginable. Fire and ice and terrible gaping voids: she saw everything that hell could be, and her mind quivered under the assault. She barely slid the doors open, just wide enough to peek inside, and that was still agony as the energy poured out like heat flooding from an oven. If she knew what Mike felt like, perhaps she could have felt him even through a doorway, but instead she actually had to look inside.

Once, she touched her face to make sure that it wasn't actually cracked and burning. No, it just felt like it.

_This has to be right,_ Tina told herself as she turned to the next page, her hand shaking. _Whatever brought Kurt back was evil._

She could hear Doctor Strange telling her that someone who'd died with dark attentions upon them could easily be destined for a hell dimension. Mercedes had warned her about resurrections, and then sure enough, Kurt had laughed as he killed Mike. She'd seen him on the security camera. Her memories of that morning were jumbled by now, but she was sure that Kurt had actually been smiling and laughing as he slit Mike's throat. 

If something that deeply tainted by a dark resurrection spell had killed Mike, then the risk of him being in hell himself had to be enormous. Mike was Tina's first love, her true love, and the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with. She refused to abandon him just because it hurt when she looked inside. If it hurt her at a glance, how much agony was he in?

She cried from the pain, but she kept looking.

It became a steady march: turn the page. See how to access the next hell dimension. Manipulate the energy. Open the door just far enough to see if she could sense Mike, and if not, close it again. Double-check that the door was sealed. Breathe. Turn the page.

Once, she wiped away what she thought were more tears and her hand came away red. Tina blinked at it, dully confused, and touched the corners of her eyes with her other hand. It came away glossy and clear, and her fingertips were only bloody when she checked her nose. Good. Fine. She'd seen Kurt and Finn both make it through nosebleeds from using their powers too intensely. She could survive this.

When she came to a doorway for a dimension that the book warned her strongly about, it took more effort than usual to close the door. As small as the slit was, the door was still slow to close. Something inside leaned on it, trying to force it back open, and Tina pushed back. These hells had never fought back before. 

It wobbled again and she changed her flow of energy toward it. As she did, Tina realized that she'd made the wrong assumption about what was happening. That wasn't the pressure of something pushing from inside the dimension. It was coming from outside, from someone right there on Earth. Someone else was trying to open a doorway to hell, wide.

Tina's eyes widened, and with every ounce of strength she had, tried to slam the door shut. She quickly drained any power reserves she had, and the office around her didn't yet have its electricity on. She had no choice but to pull on the hell dimension's energy as it poured out of the door. 

Now, blood trickled from more than just her nose.

As she struggled, she could tell that she was more skilled than whoever she was fighting. She was still a novice, and so this person had to have no idea at all what they were doing. She was probably stronger, too. But she was tired. She was so, so tired, and she'd been working too long already.

Tina slipped. The unknown hand pulled the door open. She pushed, but still, they pulled.

Inch by futile inch, as Tina bled, hell sought an entry into the city.

The air above one building was still tender and vulnerable. Only a few weeks earlier, ghosts who had been anchored to a spot for decades had been guided into the next world by Tina, Mercedes, and Finn. That sort of thing left a mark. The dimensional walls were still weak, and even though the ghosts' trip had been to somewhere better, it was still easier to punch a hole there to anywhere.

It was much easier than a boy who'd only ever wanted to dabble in supervillainry had ever expected.

Directly above Agatha Walker's mansion, the sky opened and hell poured loose.

* * *

Santana wasn't answering her phone, and neither was Quinn. It wasn't that Mercedes expected people to be available 24/7. Maybe they had classes. Maybe they were filming. Still, it was frustrating as hell, and a lot more dangerous than when Blaine hadn't answered all day as she tried to tell him the bad news about Kurt.

 _I miss seeing people all the time,_ Mercedes thought as she got out of the cab and paid their driver. This had been a New Directions practice day. Back in high school, they would have just planned their attack after running through their latest songs. 

As the driver offered a receipt, Mercedes turned it down and thought about the money they'd just spent. Mrs. Walker's fee wouldn't last forever, but Tony Stark's gift had played out just like he'd expected. They'd heard from others in New York's high society who needed special issues handled. They hadn't gotten back to those potential clients, yet, after what had happened to Mike. Still, from the looks of it, they were set for life. They could handle industrial rivalries and clear out vacation homes, get paid well, and never worry about making rent again.

In theory, that was great. It was what they'd wanted. It had just come with the worst price tag in the world.

And, as Mercedes looked around the nice neighborhood in which they'd been deposited, she felt oddly uncomfortable surrounded by all this wealth. Did these people really need their help, like the people around their office did? There, they'd taken some unpleasant jobs. Cheated-on boyfriends had turned out to be clingy exes who couldn't stand that their loves had moved on. But scattered among that work was helping a mutant couple, finding runaways, and even breaking up rings of people who were going to sell innocent kids out as little more than body parts; sometimes alive, sometimes not. Those were far more rare than the unpleasant and typical investigative jobs, but....

But nothing, Mercedes sighed. They couldn't live like that. They needed a steady job. Maybe their role in the world was to be able to pay their rent each month, and then help out people who needed it by being typical superheroes. Maybe.

Was it too much to expect the world to just give them one easy answer, seriously?

"He says he'll meet us here," Sam said as he joined her on the sidewalk. He showed her the text from Peter.

"You're sure you trust this guy to know what he's talking about?" Mercedes asked. She didn't want to be out there in the cold, unless she was looking for Tina. Going for a walk was one thing, but by now, Tina's mournful walk felt more like a marathon.

_And it'll all hit her again when they have the funeral._

Mercedes shivered under her sudden wave of regret. It was just like after Kurt. Sometimes the memories would strike fresh, like she'd never worked through them. She didn't know whether they hurt more because of the novelty, or the guilt that she hadn't been thinking about her dead friend for every second of the day. 

"Yeah," Sam said, looking at his phone. "He knows what he's talking about."

She nodded. "So," Mercedes said as they waited, "there's some hot girl at the Bugle, huh?"

Sam looked pained. "I told you, I didn't do anything."

"I know. I trust you." She shot him a tired smile. "It's just weird to have you all off in your own little world. Talking to hot girls and making all these friends that I've never met before. It's different."

Sam kissed her. "I'm talking with a hot girl."

"Suck-up. Say it again."

"A totally hot girl," Sam said. "And hey... I'd work with you guys if... you know."

If he weren't vulnerable just by association from his lack of superpowers, right. "Would you even want them? Powers?" Mercedes asked, remembering how down he'd been about the hard lives of heroes.

Sam exhaled. "No. Not if I got to pick. Not after Kurt and Mike. But, you know... if it just happened like it did to you guys, and all of a sudden I woke up with superpowers, then I would totally work with you."

"Well, that'd be nice."

"Yeah." Sam looked ready to say more, but rose on his toes and waved to someone. Mercedes turned and saw who must be Peter Parker walking toward them.

"Hi," Peter said, nodding at Mercedes.

She nodded back. Peter looked nice, but unremarkable, and like Sam had somehow brought up a child with Artie.

"Did any of your friends come?" Peter asked.

"I couldn't get them on the phone," Mercedes admitted. "But the good thing about my shields is that they're pretty sturdy. The three of us can look around and I'll keep you safe, don't worry."

"Well, thanks," Peter said wryly. "I'm not too worried about me, though. Are you sure there's no one else you can call?"

Puck, Finn, or Rachel? No. Kurt? Hell no. "Not really," Mercedes said. "But it'll be okay. Do you know where the trouble is?"

Peter looked around and shook his head. "No, but it's going to be somewhere around here."

"And you're sure about that?" Mercedes asked.

"He's sure," Sam said, again using that strange tone to his voice that made him sound like he was ready to wink at Peter.

"Right," Mercedes said, and let Peter lead them onward. Energy danced in tiny flashes around her fingertips as they walked. She was ready to shield them against the danger... whatever it might be.

Abruptly, she recognized the street they were on, and Mercedes got a terrible feeling. They'd left behind the rickety fire escapes and narrow facades of her neighborhood. The buildings here were prouder, and many of the huge townhouses held only a single family apiece. It was a street full of rich people, and on it was the Walker mansion in which they'd sent those spirits on to heaven.

Mercedes didn't reject the idea that coincidences could happen, but a simple coincidence usually felt less like a warning. "Sam," she asked, surprised that her voice was calm. "Do you know what Tina's been doing?" Tina had been gone for too long. She was suddenly sure of that. This was too big to be a coincidence.

"Going for a walk?" Sam replied. "Why? What's that building you're staring at?"

"It's the middle of winter, and she's been going for a walk for hours, now?"

"Maybe it's how she's dealing," Sam said. "Ben Sisko nearly left Starfleet after Wolf 359."

They really spoke two different languages, sometimes. Mercedes, frustrated, looked around the dark street and wished that winter night fell just a little later. She couldn't see any threat, but it felt like one had to be lurking. She had the same twitchy feeling that she got when a crowd was about to break out into a fight, or the target they were watching was about to clue in and ditch them. _And without Mike, we'll never be able to catch a runner._ There was another of those time-delayed pain bombs in her heart. _After tonight, I'm giving myself a good, long cry._

"I don't like this," Peter said. "Something is really wrong."

Mercedes walked toward the Walker mansion and rested her hand on the stairway leading up to its broad, heavy doors. She squinted up at the dark sky. Nothing. "We cleared out some ghosts from here a while back," she said, turning to Peter. "Do you think that could have anything to do with whatever's wrong?"

"That's... hold on!" Peter said, just before he rounded up Sam and Mercedes with two quick grabs, and then launched a string of webbing at a tall building half a block down. Just as Mercedes realized what she was seeing, Peter—Spider-Man—swung them both up off the street, through the air, and onto the rooftop. They were too heavy to land gracefully, and they hit hard enough to knock the wind out of the trio. Mercedes was still sucking air back into her lungs when the sky above the Walker mansion tore like rotten cloth and fire landed where they'd been standing. If Peter hadn't reacted _before_ it had happened, they would have died.

Mercedes threw up an instinctive shield around all three of them just as the wall of flames hit. They would have died then, too.

"I'm Spider-Man," Peter said needlessly.

"I noticed." Mercedes swallowed. "Can you get us out of here again?"

His webbing rebounded off the inside of her shield and hit Sam hard on one leg. As Sam winced, Mercedes concentrated on opening up a small hole, just big enough for a new strand, and Peter aimed at it. Even with that small hole, smoke poured in. Things were falling apart, fast.

"Alley-oop," Peter said as he grabbed them, and they flew. Two blocks away, where the heat still bore down but the fires hadn't spread, he set them on a new rooftop. "Well, things just sort of went to hell."

If only he weren't being literal. "We have to find Tina," Mercedes said. "She's... she was going for a walk, she could be somewhere around here!"

Something passed overhead, flapping smoky wings.

"You need to call in your superbuddies," Peter said, and pulled on his mask. "And then find your friend."

"I'll try," Mercedes said. But if no one was picking up, what could she do?

"And Sam?" Peter added.

"Yeah?" Sam asked as he picked more webbing away from his work pants.

"Try not to die, okay, buddy?"

Sam laughed darkly as Peter swung away, now in full costume. His clothes lay in a shucked pile on the rooftop. "Yeah," Sam said. "That seems to be my job whenever we hit this stage."

"Come on," Mercedes said, and handed him her phone. "You, call again. I'll find the fire escape."

* * *

They were in hell.

Kurt could almost laugh. He'd just gotten out of his own private hell, but that had been a new twist on the idea, with robot puppetry, evil priests, and a forcefield resurrection. Right now, New York looked like the classic hellfire and brimstone version. 

Doom had shown that he had access to magical powers once, and he'd already been planning to use Kurt to blow up S.H.I.E.L.D.'s headquarters. Kurt's hell had started because of Doom's attempts to start a global war. Was this Doom taking revenge again? Yes, this might just be some giant temper tantrum of Doom's, but that meant Doom was _there_. "Give me the shot," he croaked, and flexed his fists inside their restraints. Had it just been a day earlier that he'd done the same in a hospital bed, and thought that he'd gotten away?

Reed ignored him. He was on the phone with someone; presumably, his teammates on the Fantastic Four. He hung up and ran out the door. The others watched him go, dumbstruck at their sudden abandonment. 

"He just left us here," Quinn said in disbelief.

"I. Um." Artie looked around the room, and frowned at all the readings he saw. He scratched his head, then rolled toward a bank of buttons and tried to make sense of the feedback they were getting on the city.

_They're the serious heroes,_ Kurt realized. Reed hadn't asked for them to accompany the Fantastic Four because they weren't seen as real help. _Although he might have a point about me_ , Kurt thought as he stared out the window from inside his shackles. _I'm on the slab again,_ he thought. His heart pounded. He was on that cold stone slab, waiting to be put back under Doom's command. Doom really was coming, wasn't he? This was his work. He'd done this. He was coming for Kurt, no one was going to stop him, and Kurt was back in hell. It wasn't Reed Richards' metal table below him, it was a stone slab. This was Latveria again. It was, it was. His ears rang and bile burned the back of his throat.

"Babe, calm down," Puck pleaded, cupping Kurt's cheeks and trying to meet his gaze.

All Kurt could see was how Bullseye had looked as Kurt killed him. What Jack had looked like as he slumped against the wall. How Mike had tried to hold his throat closed.

"Get him out of that thing!" Quinn demanded as Kurt, with a thin whine, pushed against his restraints and sobbed when they didn't budge.

With a great wrenching noise, Puck ripped the shackles off Kurt's metal table, then helped him stand. Kurt's knees were weak. If Puck hadn't caught him, he would have fallen.

"Sit him over here," Quinn said, and led them away from the table and to a chair. She stroked Kurt's hair as Puck sat him down, then knelt on the floor between his knees. "Kurt, open your eyes. Look at me. Look at where you are."

"He was so happy in the hospital," Puck said hopelessly.

"I couldn't move on the table," Kurt said. Another pair of hands started massaging his scalp, and he realized Brittany had walked behind him. "Doom did this. He's attacking. He's going to come for me, and...." He sucked in a wet, unsteady breath. "I couldn't move when I was dead."

"You remember being dead?" Quinn asked in horror.

He nodded. "And I couldn't... I couldn't move except how he told me to, and... and...." 

"You're safe," Puck promised. "This isn't like that. We're all here. Okay?" He knelt down and nudged Quinn out of the way. After a look at them, Quinn left them in relative privacy and pulled Brittany with her. "We don't even know that this is Doom, all right?"

"But what if it is?" Kurt whispered. He felt ashamed of himself. He'd always thought that he was strong, but between the shields Finn had needed to put on him earlier and his panic attack now, it was clear that had changed. Quinn, Santana, Brittany, Finn, Puck, and Rachel could all do more raw damage, and so could Mercedes, if she was given enough time to charge her attack. The two things he had were his willpower and creativity.

And his willpower had broken. 

"I can't do this," he said, defeated. The weeks spent living as a weapon had broken him.

"You can do anything you put your mind to," Puck said instantly, "because you're Kurt fucking Hum—"

"No." Kurt looked down. "He died."

Kurt Hummel had been stronger than Kurt Hutton, but then he died.

Puck was quiet for a beat, and then got up on one knee and cupped Kurt's cheeks again. "I spent two years looking for myself, okay? Getting over a lot of bullshit that I did, because I wasn't strong enough to act like a decent person when it mattered. I wasn't trying to win you. I didn't think that turning into a decent person would make me _deserve_ you, like some prize. Yeah, I hoped, but I never expected. And whenever it got hard and I felt like saying 'fuck this, the easy road's the way to go,' I'd think of how you keep working when every single thing in this world is against you."

"I'm glad you don't need me to do that now," Kurt said, his eyes red with tears. "Because I can't."

"I know. That's okay. I will. I'll be strong and... and be as good as I can, and you can lean on me. Okay?" Puck used the pads of his thumbs to wipe away Kurt's tears. "Remember how you did that in New York before, huh? With your dad? Before Ohio?"

"Yeah."

Puck smiled at what had somehow become their special word. "Yeah. Okay. We'll get through this together. I'll be there through the tough spots and it'll all work out. You'll want to go outside again, and you'll get Finn to let you see all your memories, and the whole time I'll make you coffee with those frilly paper things." He wiped away another tear. His hands were rough and calloused. "If you need to cry and punch things and whatever, then do it. I can take a hit."

Kurt's eyes flicked down to the bandages covered by Puck's clothes. Under that clothing was the bullet wound Kurt had given him. When Puck saw him looking, Kurt said, "You're going to have a scar."

"Yeah. So do you. We'll match."

Kurt's hand pressed lightly against where his own sword had slid through his chest. Thanks to the nanobots, his skin was unmarked. "I don't," Kurt said. He'd lost every scar he'd ever earned, along with quite a few stray freckles from the sun. Everything he picked up from now on out would go onto someone else: whoever had replaced Kurt Hummel. 

Puck took Kurt's hand in his and moved it up and over, so it rested over Kurt's heart. "I think you do," Puck said.

A wave of emotion send Kurt lunging forward. "I love you," he whispered against Puck's ear, so close that his breath felt warm against his lips.

"Yeah."

Kurt sniffled. "Yeah." He clung to Puck for a long, tight second, and then relaxed. "I need to inject myself. Doctor Richards left too soon."

Puck pulled back and looked at him with pain in his eyes. "Please don't."

"There's not much left of me. I know we're going to work through it and hope that I'll get better, but right now, there's not." Kurt swallowed. "But there's at least enough of me left to know that if I have to die to save other people's lives, I'd rather die. And if Doom gets ahold of me again...." He didn't need to say it. 

A lot of people would die if Doom got his way.

"It's not just about being scared," Kurt continued. "I am. I'm terrified. If it were only that, maybe I could handle it, because I know that you'd rescue me. But I can't ever make another Mike. I can't ever hurt someone else like I hurt Tina."

Puck looked ready to punch something, but he let Kurt stand. The other four started talking amongst themselves, like he wouldn't notice that they'd been eavesdropping. Kurt didn't mind. After so many missions spent alone, both for S.H.I.E.L.D. and Doom, he liked being around people. 

"I, uh, should check in," Santana said a little too loudly, and whipped out her phone. Though her fingers began tapping out a text, she seemed to notice something else on the screen and her brow furrowed. "There's a message. I didn't hear it ring." She raised the phone to her ear. "Shit. I'd better call back." She tapped in some number and waited. "Tommy? I can barely hear you. Yes. The Baxter Building, still. No, we're not coming back to your office! Um, because the city is melting out there?"

After a long look at the burning skyline, Kurt began searching for another syringe. He shoved aside metal trays on the metal counters as he hunted.

Santana glared at him and held her finger to her mouth. "People need our help, and we're going out there." She sputtered into the phone. "I don't care if your insurance doesn't cover this!"

"Here," Artie said when she looked annoyed at another stray noise, and fed her call into a wall monitor. The man on the other end looked surprised to suddenly be visible; he must have been calling from his computer, with a camera that Artie had unexpectedly turned on. This 'Tommy' was a slick, Hollywood-looking type who Kurt disliked on sight. Bizarrely, he reminded Kurt of Doom, and Kurt shivered.

"You need to come back to my office, ladies," said Tommy, looking between Quinn and Santana, then Brittany.

"We need to help," Quinn said, stepping forward.

"I... fine. Stay at the Baxter. NBC sent its news teams out, but I'll get one of them to head back up to Midtown and grab you. It shouldn't be more than twenty minutes, even with traffic. Maybe thirty, if there are a lot of accidents already."

"We're not sitting on our hands here for half an hour," Quinn said in disbelief.

"None of your show's crews will go out into that!" Tommy said. "They're hired to cover parties, not... whatever the hell is happening over Downtown right now."

The ends of Santana's hair caught on fire. "I don't care if you can't get a camera crew out here. This isn't about that." Her eyes were burning pools. 

"Everyone across the country is going to know this is happening to the city! If we don't have the footage of you helping out—"

"Then what?" Quinn asked, arms folded. As Kurt watched them fight back, he began to realize why the man had reminded him of Doom at a glance. _Everyone's just supposed to follow orders, aren't they?_

"Then what good are you?" Tommy demanded. "You want to spend time with these social rejects, you barely deal with our sponsors—"

"And you keep us away from people who need our help!" Santana shouted back.

"We're not in the business of saving people!" Tommy snarled. "This city is crawling with heroes, and do you have any idea what a nightmare it is to cover your insurance? To get these permits? You take ten times the effort of a normal show just to sell a single ad spot!"

"Then fire us!" Santana yelled, and slapped her hand against the monitor's control panel. As Brittany patted down her hair with a silvery lab mat, Santana exhaled and regained control over her powers. "I think we might be out of the show," she told Brittany.

Quinn smiled thinly. "Good." She pulled off her shirt and revealed the costume under it, and then slid out of her skirt. "Making next year's tuition is going to be fun."

Brittany began peeling off a few pieces of her outfit as Santana moved to silence her phone again. "Mercedes called earlier, too," Santana said with a frown as she held the phone back up to her ear. Her frown deepened at whatever she was hearing. "She wanted help. She has a tip from someone that something bad's about to go down... somewhere... downtown...."

"When did she call?" Brittany asked, eyes wide.

Santana checked the screen, looked at the window, and swallowed. "Before."

Everyone turned to the glass wall and watched another fire-rimmed hole tear open in the sky.

_Mercedes is down there_ , Kurt realized with horror, but his feet were lead and he couldn't move toward the door.

Santana was frozen, too. "But. You know. She has those shields. Right? She's fine, right?" Their fear hung steady for a beat, and then she pitched her phone to Artie, who just snagged it. Like Quinn, she ripped off her outfit to reveal the costume underneath. Seams tore when she moved too quickly. _That was DKNY,_ Kurt thought with the kneejerk ease that some other agents could identify a gun on sight. It wasn't a brand he would have picked for her, if asked.

It had probably been chosen by the network, as one of their sponsors.

"Artie, can you get a car or something ready for us?" Quinn asked as she checked herself over. Her body turned translucent, then into crystal ice. Memories tugged at Kurt, and he thought of pushing himself to his limits in the basement of that research facility. _At least she's not naked, this time._

"Got it," Artie said. "I just dropped the security on a car in the basement, spot 7-G."

"You picked a g-spot," Brittany said with a grin as she adjusted her gloves.

"Yeah," Artie said, grinning back.

"Come on," Quinn said, but hesitated after one step. "Puck, watch out for him."

Puck pulled Kurt close. "That's my number one job."

Quinn nodded and began to move again, but Santana caught her wrist. "Wait." She looked over her shoulder at the glass wall, and inhaled deeply. Her eyes were glossy when she looked at Brittany. "This is one hell of an observation deck."

"I don't think it's a deck," Brittany said, confused. "Those are outside, like in Sleepless in Seattle when Forrest Gump finally met Meg Ryan. This is like... an observation science lab."

"It's close enough," Santana said. "This has turned into a day when I'm focusing on what really matters in my life, I guess. And it's not big parties or expensive clothes. It's not being famous. It's helping people, and it's the people I care about." She moved toward Brittany and pulled her close when they met. "I care about you most of all. I don't want to wait any more, because...." Her eyes flickered to Kurt, then back. "Because bad things happen."

"Guys," Quinn said, and pointed to the door, but it wasn't emphatic. She seemed to want to watch what was happening.

"You've been doing the right thing all this time," Santana said, and stroked one of Brittany's pink streaks between her fingers. "You've been stopping a lot of bad stuff from happening just because it's the right thing to do, and I haven't even noticed. Well, I want to do the right thing, right now."

"Let's go stop some bad guys," Brittany agreed.

"Let's get married." Santana grinned widely at Brittany's surprise. "I told you: we're on that skyscraper observation deck. Please?"

"Let's go stop some bad guys," Brittany repeated, "and then let's get married."

Santana laughed with delight and flung her arms around Brittany's shoulders, who spun her in a giddy circle. Then Brittany set Santana down, they both exhaled, and Santana said, "Okay, yeah, well. I have to go kick some ass so I can go on my freaking honeymoon."

"Dollywood," Brittany said, her eyes sparkling. Quinn hid laughter behind her hand. Amazingly, Kurt felt himself smiling. 

"Come on," Quinn said. "Let's go save New York, and then you can fight over which of you gets to ask me to be your maid of honor."

Santana and Brittany looked at each other for a long beat, and then rushed into the elevator in a chorus of delighted giggles. Quinn joined them, and disappeared from view with a wry smile still on her iced-over face. The numbers on the elevator began to descend, and the three boys were left alone.

"They're going to thank me for filming that, someday," Artie said as he lowered the remote control for a tiny flying camera. Kurt hadn't noticed it zipping about. Artie set aside the controls, still grinning, and then glanced at Puck. "So, do you guys want a car, or...?"

It wasn't a serious question, and they all knew it. Still, it had been polite to pretend that Kurt was capable of heading outside. "Reed Richards' own building is probably going to be the safest spot in the city against whatever Doom can do, right?" Kurt asked tiredly.

"Yeah, probably." Artie's smile turned lopsided. His voice held no judgment.

Puck rubbed small circles on Kurt's back as Kurt, exhausted, realized there was absolutely no way he could go outside and face the hell hanging over Manhattan. "So, is there anything I can do in here to help?"

* * *

"I really don't want you out here," Carole said as her car took a sharp turn. For one long second, it felt like they might tilt onto two wheels. Finn exhaled as they settled firmly onto the new street.

She said that, but she'd still let him come with her. S.H.I.E.L.D. could track down energy sources from anywhere on earth, but they couldn't pinpoint the thoughts of someone who might be at the center of the trouble. _It's Bring Your Son to Work Day,_ Finn thought, wild-eyed, as they took another turn. 

Maybe he'd visit Burt next time. Burt played with lasers and blueprints. That sounded way more fun.

"I should take you back," Carole said, but she didn't turn around.

"It's okay," Finn said as he stared at the inferno above them. They were driving straight toward its heart. _This so isn't okay. I want to hurl and run away and hide forever._ "I can help. I'm a grown-up. Let me help." _I'm going to throw up._

Carole nodded and kept driving, weaving her small car through cars that people had abandoned on the streets. Finn barely fit inside it; his legs were all bunched up. Another two blocks passed, and she said, "If the city blows, then it'd take you with it. That's the only reason I'm taking you closer to danger, okay?" 

Finn nodded. _She thinks I can really help fix things._ Through his terror, he felt a little rush of pride. She thought he was enough in control of his powers to be of real use. An expert trained in using people's skills was taking him straight to the heart of something gone very, very wrong. 

_But what if we die?_ The thought caught him off-guard like a right hook. He knew what it felt like to die, and knew that Carole had come very close in that helicopter mission gone wrong. Neither of them would be surprised if they died, but the knowledge of what they'd leave behind turned Finn's stomach. Kurt wouldn't be able to handle the memories he'd been left with. Finn somehow knew that Kurt wouldn't even make it through the month. That would leave Burt alone, with only his two dogs as the remnants of the full, happy family he'd once had.

Burt probably wouldn't make it then, either.

Finn wanted to save everyone: Rachel, his co-workers, his friends, everyone. He'd demanded that Emma track down Rachel in London, and he'd forced himself to tell Puck the bad news about Kurt when it was the horribly right thing to do. He'd been clumsy, then. He'd harangued Emma until she cooperated. There was no reason that conversation with Puck needed to end with Finn's broken arm. He'd plowed through with the certainty of the boy who always knew the right songs to sing for Regionals, or who needed to be quarterback.

His friends were family, at some level. What they'd gone through had turned them into one, even if it was a huge, dysfunctional family that had been ripped apart over the past year worse than they'd ever dreamed. And Finn loved them. He did. But his real family, who fought over what couch to buy and which cable package to sign up for, was where he'd finally stopped trying to be more than who he was. 

The first time he'd ever reacted thoughtfully to a situation, instead of powering through with total certainty, was when his powers told him what his first dad had been thinking about Kurt. It wasn't good. Finn had been so shocked by what he'd heard that he, for once in his life, didn't assume he knew what he should do next.

He'd done the right thing back then, and then they'd lost their powers and memories. Finn went right back to his bad habits of sweeping in and telling everyone what to do. Emma had tried to break him of that, but both of them were uncertain whether it would really stick. The fact that Kurt had asked Finn to block his memories, rather than Finn deciding that for him, was a good start. But it was only that: a start. Finn needed to step back and react more, and not assume he always knew what to do.

Well, that was good timing.

Because, as he looked at the spots of hellfire opening above them and felt a crushing wall of terror from the people of New York, Finn had no idea what he was supposed to do next.


	20. Start All Over Again

"How are you and Finn doing?" Blaine asked as they approached Manhattan.

Ever since Stamford, he'd been singing along with the radio. Finally, Rachel told him that she needed to put it on her official team channels. It took an awful lot to get Rachel Berry to stop listening to music, but Blaine's blind optimism had her alternately heartsick and irritated. Silence was a relief.

"We're all right, I suppose." Rachel frowned when someone cut in front of her. They were in the city proper, now, and traffic had increased accordingly. "Why?"

"You've just been together for so long," Blaine said. "I've missed a lot of gossip being away like I am, I'm sure. Are you... moving in together, say?"

Moving in? They'd never even discussed the idea. "No, but he visits a lot," Rachel said. The urge to tell him _why_ Finn usually visited bubbled up, and she choked it back hard. Rachel knew that Finn's telepathic efforts—his extremely satisfying efforts—to please her often came out of a desire to focus on the two of them, and not what he'd felt from his brother as he'd fled. If Blaine gave her any indication of actively trying to split up Kurt and Puck, though, then she _could_ tell him about the intensity of what Finn was running from. Maybe she'd be creative about the specifics. She had a good imagination.

"Well, that’s fine," Blaine said.

"Of course it’s fine," Rachel said, more annoyed than she’d meant to sound. "We’re only twenty years old and we’re both starting our own careers. I have to worry about building my public awareness levels, too. You saw how your class had no idea who I am."

"I’m not blaming you," he laughed.

 _Stop it. You’re in a bad mood. Don’t say something you’ll regret._ She breathed deeply.

"You’re just one of those couples that I know will work out in the end," Blaine added with a smile.

 _Like me and Kurt,_ Rachel heard him finish, as clearly as if she had Finn’s powers. She had to take another deep breath. Heroes’ stories must look a lot more dramatic and awe-inspiring from the outside. Blaine, who’d once been so shaken by seeing threats up close, had now forgotten everything except for Kurt’s miraculous resurrection when he was hours removed from it all.

Had she even told him about Mike? Rachel couldn’t remember. What would Blaine say then? Would he still treat this like such a miracle?

When they were halfway down the length of the West Side Highway, a second sunset ripped open the night sky over downtown. The car in front of Rachel's slammed on its brakes. She stopped in time, but they were rear-ended by an SUV that didn’t. The hood warped, her trunk crumpled. Her skin was tender where the coarse airbag had exploded against it. "Are you all right?" she asked dizzily, remembering that she had a passenger.

Blaine looked stunned, but could move freely, so there couldn't be any serious spinal damage. Rachel checked his eyes and saw with satisfaction that the pupils were the same size. "I. Yes. I'm fine," he said. He winced as he moved, touching his breastbone beneath the seatbelt, and Rachel became aware of how much her body hurt. This was going to be one of those days.

Rachel fumbled for her radio. "Tony," she said. Hair stuck to her face. Despite it being January, the city was suddenly warm. "Tony, I'm back in the city, I can help."

"Something’s pouring out of the sky," she heard after a short pause. It was Steve on the radio. "Avengers, assemble at Houston and Bowery. Be ready for anything."

"Steve," Rachel said. "I have a civilian with me. We were just in an accident."

"It’s your call, Anthem. We can use you, but only if you can make it safely. I’d ask if you need help, but...."

But there were more pressing problems, and right now, she was on her own. "We’re all right," Rachel said, and felt Steve turn his attention away from her. "Can you move?" she asked Blaine.

"I’m sore, but I’m all right." He pressed on his chest again and winced, but moved after that. Their doors still opened, and they got painfully out and looked with horror at the southern sky.

A news van roared past, then reversed to get footage of the massive pile-up. Rachel opened her mouth. She was Anthem, she was working with the Avengers, she was _someone_ and they should be asking her what was about to happen.

As quickly as it came, the impulse faded. She shut her mouth, stumbled away from the wreck, and motioned for Blaine to do the same.

This wasn't a time to be on camera, and it wasn't a time to hunt down the _real_ Avengers to make sure that she was featured in anything they did. She had someone to get to safety, and she'd be damned if there was anything more important for her to manage on that night.

* * *

Kurt's hand closed on the syringe that would kill him, and he held it up triumphantly. "I found it."

Puck looked with dismay at the dose of silvery nanobots suspended in solution. "Please don't."

"I have to get my system cleared, anyway," Kurt said, shrugging off his outer shirt and rolling up the shorter sleeve underneath. As he hunted for the disinfecting swabs Reed had used on Puck, Kurt shot occasional satisfied looks at the burning skyline. Even if Doom came, he wouldn't get Kurt. Reed Richards was smarter than Doctor Doom; everyone said so. If Reed promised Kurt that Kurt would be too dead and destroyed to _ever_ let Doom use him again, then Doom was finally going to lose.

Kurt brushed past Artie as he hunted for the swabs, and Artie looked up from the screens showing destruction and terror around the city. "Wait, what're you doing?"

"Curing myself," Kurt said as he cleaned a spot on his upper arm and tried to angle the syringe correctly. He'd never done anything like this before.

"That's not going to do you any good," Artie said apologetically. "They're not activated, yet. Reed only does that right before they go in."

Hope fled. Kurt stared with dismay at the needle. "Can you do it?"

"I can try," Artie said after a beat. "I'm sorry, I've never done that before, and his stuff is really complicated."

"You're supposed to be a genius," Kurt said, betrayed, as he let the syringe fall to his side. Doom was back and he didn't get his self-destruct safety button in place? Reed had run off and abandoned Kurt before he installed that off switch?

He was suddenly furious. Why did he have to be the one in danger? Why was it always him? Why was he standing in a room with a billionaire tech playboy in the making, after they’d just said goodbye to three network superstars, when he couldn't even stand on a karaoke stage without hiding himself?

When nothing he did even _mattered?_

And that was the worst of it, wasn't it? In the end, nothing he'd done had mattered. He'd fought not to kill Finn and had killed Mike, instead. He'd stopped the UN from blowing up and now all of downtown was melting. He'd even tried not to kill his own killer, and he remembered what it felt like when his sword slid through Bullseye’s chest.

"What have you even been doing, Artie? Besides making money for yourself?" Kurt asked thickly. Why did Artie get the fancy loft in Tribeca and the dinners on Tony Stark's expense account? No one had ever guilt tripped him for going to dinner, Kurt was sure. _Follow orders,_ Kurt heard in Nick Fury's voice, and he bit back a hysterical laugh. Boy, he'd sure learned that lesson, hadn't he?

Artie jerked back. "Uh, trying to solve the power problems of the entire country?"

"For a profit," Kurt said, and remembered how it had felt to stand there and be lectured on his spending habits.

"Well, sorry that I didn't kill anyone," Artie said, and instantly paled.

Kurt flinched. "Well, maybe you should have tried harder to scan for Doombots." His personal touch had been needed on that UN mission because of a lack of reliable scanners. That was the day when everything had started to fall apart. "But that probably wasn't a big enough paycheck."

"Hey," Puck said quietly. "This isn't like you. You don't hate Artie."

Kurt shook off his arm, but didn't flee further. Artie didn't say anything, and for a long breath they stared at the floor instead of each other.

Still holding onto Kurt, Puck said to Artie, "And if you ever say anything like that to him again, you'd better hope your chair is a Transformer that can turn into a freaking tank."

"I didn't mean Mike," Artie said. "I'm sorry. I meant that you were running secret missions and fighting bad guys, and like... that was never an option for me, you know? I meant those guys. I didn't mean Mike. I meant that it wasn’t my fault that I couldn’t face bad guys in person. That was all."

Kurt nodded, hugging himself. "Do you think it's my fault that he's dead?" he asked.

"It doesn't seem to be," Artie said carefully.

That might be the best he could hope for. "So can you figure out how to turn these on?" Kurt asked in a shaking voice, and held up the syringe.

"Probably," Artie said.

Something exploded, and the three men stared at the fading fireball. Whatever was happening out there was picking up its pace. People were dying. Right now.

Kurt swallowed. His eyes flicked between the syringe and the city. "Is there anything else you could be doing to help down there?"

"Yes," Artie said, "but then I wouldn’t be able to figure out how to turn on your little robots."

"Help them," Kurt decided. He looked at Puck and managed a weak smile. "And stop anyone from getting me in the meantime, okay?"

"You got it," Puck promised, and kissed the side of his head. His relief that Kurt hadn’t injected himself was almost palpable.

For a long beat, Kurt stared at the city. People were dying. Innocents. Just like he'd taken upon himself to protect with every single mission, including the one that assaulted a hotel and decapitated a Doombot in a diplomat's guise. His hands shook as he turned away from the windows and his frantic survey for any of Doom's troops approaching, but he forced himself to take one step toward Artie, then another. Puck followed so closely that he was nearly touching.

 _Mom did this,_ Kurt told himself. _She had the helicopter thing, but she pushed past it. She's okay, now._ He inhaled deeply. _Puck has my back. I'm not alone. I was alone before, but I'm not, now._ His fingers brushed across his phone, but when he lifted it, Artie shook his head.

"The cell networks are already clogged," Artie said. "Give me a second."

"Thank you," Kurt said, sincerely and in unspoken apology for his earlier words. Artie's smile said the same, and he nodded when his workaround was ready for Kurt to use. Whatever new channel had taken over Kurt's cell phone, it worked, and the landline he called rang after only a few seconds' pause. "Hi, Dad," Kurt said softly, and saw Puck's approving face out of the corner of his vision. A strong arm encircled his waist. This wasn't everyone he wanted in his life near him in what could potentially be his last night alive, but it was a good start. "I'm okay. You probably saw what's going on downtown, but I'm okay."

"Thank god," Burt said tearfully. "Are you somewhere safe?"

Kurt looked at Puck. "I'm as safe as I can be."

"I can't lose you again, you hear me? I _can't._ "

"He's with me, Mister, uh, Burt," Puck said. "They'll have to come through me first, and trust me, I'm a hard wall to get through."

"I'd die to keep him safe," Burt said like a test, but without the anger of how his challenges to Puck had once sounded.

Puck met it without hesitation. "It'd be an honor." He caught Kurt's distressed expression and added, "But I'm not gonna shoot for that, because he shouldn't be alone, and I promised him that he's never going to be."

"Puck," Kurt said. It was all he could manage. At the computer, Artie smiled and made an expression like he was cooing over the two of them.

"We should have you both over for dinner, sometime," Burt finally said. His voice was starting to break up from static that Artie struggled to tone down. "I can tell I'm losing the connection. Kurt, just remember that I love you more than anything, and you promise me that you'll stay safe. All right, son?"

"I'll try," Kurt said, just before the connection died.

It wasn't a good farewell. If things worked out fairly, for once in his life, it wouldn't be their final one.

* * *

Rachel caught the bullet with a high G just before it could tear through Blaine's skull. It exploded into magenta sparkles with a loud enough crack that, until his ears stopped ringing, Blaine wondered if he'd gone permanently deaf. _I'm alive,_ he thought as he pressed his hand to his chest and felt his heart pounding. The world came back in a dull roar of sound.

"Are you all right?" Rachel asked.

"I'm fine." Blaine looked around in the darkness. The power had started flickering, and the only reliable illumination came from the glowing southern sky. "Who's shooting?" he asked as he realized that gunfire didn't match the feeling of this latest assault on New York. It felt like dragons should be tearing through the sky, or hellfire coming up through the ground. This wasn't a high-tech lab with security guns mounted on the walls, firing bullets. He knew what those were like.

"It was the NYPD," Rachel said, and pulled him around the corner. Apparently, they needed to keep moving. "We were just in the crossfire."

"Oh." Blaine swallowed. That seemed worse, somehow. "I didn't know that you could move quickly enough to stop a bullet. That's... that's very impressive. You're very talented." He added the last bit hoping that Rachel Berry, of all people, would appreciate that compliment and relax. Her determination and focus were overwhelming, which was intimidating all on its own. If Rachel needed to put her full efforts toward making it through whatever was happening….

The compliment didn't register. Her eyes were dark and full of meaning when she said, "I wasn't trying to stop the bullet, Blaine. I was aiming at something on the street behind you. It was just good luck that I hit it."

Oh. Then he'd nearly died from bad luck, and only good luck had saved him. His heart started to pound again. It was one thing to trust in Rachel's skill, but luck was another question entirely. Skill could only fail when it was overcome, and he had no doubt that Rachel was very skilled in every field to which she applied herself, including heroics. Luck, though... luck ran out.

His dorm room seemed very appealing, suddenly.

"I'm going to get you to my place," Rachel decided. She lifted her communicator and frowned when it only returned static, and then squinted at the sky distrustfully. "You should be safe there, and I suspect a lot more of... whatever's downtown is going to come up here, soon. You need to be inside."

"What happened?" Blaine asked, squinting at the sky as it flashed brighter, then faded.

"I don't know."

Her communicator crackled to life. "S.H.I.E.L.D.'s recording two energy surges. They're checking them out. Are you okay?"

Rachel peered at it. She took as long as Blaine to place the familiar but distorted voice. "Artie?"

"I'm hooking everyone up, if I can ID any communication device they've got on them. I've figured out how to punch through the distortion field of... whatever's going on up there." Artie chuckled. "Hey, that's an improvement over what I pulled last time, huh?"

"What's going on? I was driving Blaine in, and all of a sudden the sky... well, it exploded."

Artie began, "We're still trying to figure that—"

"Blaine's there?" asked a higher voice that they both recognized much more quickly. Artie's had been unclear, but there was no mistaking Kurt's. Blaine's heart wrenched at the sound of it. _He's really alive._ Tears beaded. "Rachel, why did you bring him to the city, _now >?"_

"Well, I thought that I would be coming back to Manhattan," Rachel snapped, "not _hell_."

"Get him somewhere safe," said a third voice. "I've got Kurt here with me, and no one's getting through."

"I'm taking him to the Tower," Rachel confirmed. "Noah, stay safe."

Puck was with Kurt, and Kurt was really alive. Blaine's mind began to move in slow, jerky lurches. "No," he said as Rachel began to nod, and caught her arm. "No, where are they? Can't we go there?" If he had to go anywhere as Manhattan exploded, couldn't it be to where he could see that Kurt was alive and breathing? See his face?

"The Tower's much closer than the Baxter," Rachel said shortly. "That's where we're going."

"But—"

"You just nearly got shot through the head," Rachel said, loud enough for the men on the other end to hear her. "We're going to the Tower."

"Dude," Puck said, "go to the freaking Tower, he'll still be here in the morning. I promise."

"Stay safe," Artie said, and Kurt echoed. "I'll call you back, Rach, if I get any more news. But—"

"But mostly, I'll keep him safe," Rachel agreed, and ended the call. She moved with the air of a practiced hero as she began sweeping the streets. Blaine watched her work, feeling suddenly cold despite the unseasonable warmth. Last time something like this had happened, he'd wanted nothing more than to make it out of that facility with his life. Tonight, with Kurt having overcome death itself, Blaine's goal became a single-minded focus on seeing him again, and making the best of that second chance.

Last time, Kurt had carried him until his body gave out, and then Puck ran him to the hospital like a living ambulance. Tonight, though, as he jogged down the street after Rachel, Blaine felt far more like baggage. He followed her mutely. _Is this really how it's going to be, just because I don't have powers? For one reason or another, it'll never work out?_ Perhaps things would look better in the morning, but... but they hadn't even listened to him wanting to go to wherever Kurt was. He was like a child needing to be protected.

"A motorcycle," Rachel laughed as she started checking her phone against the vehicles parked along the street. "I don't actually know how to use one." Her communicator waved over it, and its electronic ignition fired. She passed it over again, and it died. "Kurt was training on motorcycles," she said as she continued hunting. "He was terrible at them. But he's going to get to practice more, and get better. You're going to make it through tonight, and you're going to see it."

Blaine didn't know what he expected anymore. The night was confusing and loud, and he felt almost drunk off fear. But if he made it until tomorrow, then things might get better. He might feel as hopeful as he had that morning. _It's possible,_ Blaine told himself, even though it was so hard to believe as the city burned and he still heard Puck's voice on the communicator. But then, he thought as he watched Rachel dispatch a small swarm of something, and then find them a usable car with delight, he had always been an optimist.

So long as he was alive, there was hope. So long as he didn't give up, like he had in that hospital bed, there was hope. Tomorrow could be so different from today, so long as they were all there to see it. Maybe he'd even feel like he had a shot at living in Kurt's world, unlike that night.

"I've never seen you on the news," Blaine realized, remembering her complaints to his classroom that she needed to raise her public awareness levels. Had it only been that morning that he'd been safe in Providence? "How are you this good, and yet no one knows you?"

"That comes next," Rachel said, and then returned to saving his life.

* * *

Ever since an energy surge had granted her superpowers, every day of Brittany Pierce's life had been a party. Not all parties were the same: New Year's Eve parties were dark and romantic, birthday parties were fun, Halloween parties were scary. They all shared the ideas of glitz and excitement, though, and that was her new world.

Everywhere she went, she was surrounded by confetti and streamers. The scintillating colors of warping probabilities followed her. When she'd first gotten her powers, back in school, the glimmers were only occasional. Now, with their powers stable and fully realized, she saw all the probabilities she could warp. The ones that were ready to be tugged were thick streamers in pink and gold and silver. Others were tiny strings that she could barely grasp, or single points of confetti that she needed to catch and pull out into their full lengths. Those were much harder to use, and she only moved past the thick streamers when she had things well in hand and could afford to play around.

This wasn't playtime.

A hundred feet up, Brittany veered to the left as something clawed its way out of empty air and rushed at her. It was like some kind of demon pterodactyl, and just glancing at it made her skin itch from how impossible it looked. She pulled at the thickest, brightest rope running between her and the creature, and reality warped. The evil dinosaur had just a second's surprise to realize that its wings had vanished, and it plummeted toward the ground helplessly. When it hit, it exploded into black clouds and dispersed.

_Good. That could have been way grosser._

Santana and Quinn had their faces on commercials every week, and their own fancy page on Facebook, but Brittany didn't need that sort of feedback to love her life. Every time she took down some street thug, the whole universe threw her a ticker-tape parade.

There were bigger, dimmer streamers that always surrounded her, too. They were for more fundamental things. Brittany wasn’t close enough to the action to change the outcome of the last presidential election, but she was pretty sure that she could change things that she’d witnessed in person, even after years had passed. That was why she’d been able to bring back Finn, but not Kurt or Mike; she’d seen Finn's death, and she’d known exactly what had happened.

By now she knew that was the key feature that had let her save Finn, not how she’d turned back a sliver of time immediately after he’d died. When someone played with probabilities, it was best to limit the number of things altered. She hadn't seen Mike or Kurt die in person, and so she would have had to build a new reality out of toothpicks and no glue; holding all her assumptions together about every needed change would be almost impossible. For things she'd seen, though, the world was her big, sparkly oyster. She could probably even change who people were dating, or their powers, or what they looked like.

A gout of flame spurted and Brittany yelped. It hit her as a cloud of a thousand butterflies.

Now was not the time to be distracted. That had come way too close.

Brittany shoved away any thoughts of doing anything fancy with the enemies around her. It wasn't time to play; it was time to save the city. She knew that she could send those demon things to the pavement without much effort at all.

Time to go clip some wings.

* * *

Flames had claimed an entire city block. The streets around it were filled with a crush of fleeing people and heroes fighting the things coming out of tears in the sky. A calm New York day had turned into a horror movie, and people were being felled by foes they couldn't even see.

Quinn was glad that her ice form was self-maintaining. It was hotter than July, suddenly, and an actual ice sculpture would have melted. She saw a familiar figure landing at the end of the block and raced toward Iron Man before he could take off again. "What's going on?" she asked as she slid toward him on frictionless feet.

Tony Stark turned and popped up his suit's helmet to get a better look at the young woman talking to him. "You're not Iceman."

Quinn rolled her eyes at the mention of the X-Man. Yes, they had similar powers, but there were some _very_ obvious differences. "No, I'm Snowfall."

"Cute name." He looked at where the sky had opened. "Well, at least Agatha lived a long and obnoxious life before tonight."

 _Who's Agatha?_ Quinn wondered. "What's going on? Are we coordinating?"

Tony slammed his helmet closed. His words sounded even harsher through his suit's speakers. "Go home. This isn't the kids' table."

Quinn stared at him. "I'm powerful; I can help. And I'm not a child."

"Fine. Go home, Betty Draper, and let the real heroes do the work. These aren't TV effects, so you don't get another take if something goes wrong. You've got a pretty face. I'd hate to see it melted off." He shot into the sky before she could respond.

"Did Tony Stark just blow us off?" Santana asked in disbelief, joining her. Her hands flickered like embers in a fireplace.

 _Betty Draper, huh?_ "I think he thought we were... too shallow," Quinn said, watching the bright spots of Tony's jet thrusters as he soared into the distance. "That we were only characters, and not real heroes."

"Tony Stark, the man who put his own name on a skyscraper, thinks we're too shallow."

"Yep."

"Wow."

Pretty much. If there was anything that night to make her certain about their decision, that had certainly managed it.

Santana seemed to agree. "Yeah, so, we are going to be in crazy bad trouble when NBC comes after us for breaching our contract," Santana said as she adjusted her gloves. "And I'd do it again in a second. Fuck 'em."

Quinn laughed. Yes, they'd probably regret this tomorrow, but on that night, they were free. They didn't have to worry about leaving behind camera crews, ruining their sponsors' merchandise, or maintaining the image that NBC's PR department had chosen for them. They wouldn't have to avoid seeing new friends or old, just because they didn't fit. Quinn felt like a kid again, and this kid was about to save New York City, just like she had before.

It was a shame she'd needed to go through this journey before she saw the path she should have chosen. Given the chance, Quinn had raced toward some version of adulthood as soon as she was old enough to sign a contract. That adult had made a choice she regretted more each day. At eighteen, decisions suddenly mattered far more, but somehow she'd made one that kept her life from mattering. "All those girls sending fan mail are going to miss having you around," Quinn realized as she and Santana jogged toward the real action.

"Yeah." Santana sounded troubled. "I know."

Now that, Quinn didn't have an answer for. Well, if Quinn could figure out something to do with her life that mattered, then Santana could figure out a way to still inspire all those girls. They were free and the skies above Manhattan had turned to fire; it was a night for everything impossible to happen.

Still, despite that confidence, Quinn's heart fell when she saw more of the Avengers. She knew that she was strong, and yet also knew that she probably deserved being written off as a fake television princess after they'd let people go unrescued right next to them. That assessment still hurt to hear. She ran toward a familiar face and hoped for the best. "What's going on?"

Steve Rogers smiled at her. "Hey. Snowfall, good to have you with us." _Sit next to a man on the Sunday pews, and he doesn't call you Betty Draper. Good to know._ Steve gestured toward a far cross street. "We're running containment right now, so that the hostiles don't escape further north or over bridges. If we can do that, we'll try to clear out the Financial District, but one step at a time." After rattling off a list of streets, he finished, "Can you help patrol the perimeter?"

Quinn and Santana nodded.

Steve glanced between them and frowned. "Stick together, you two," he decided. But before Quinn could once again sigh over being distrusted to look after herself, he finished, "These things appear to be fire-based. I don't know if that means that either of you might be immune to them, or that either of your attacks might work or not. But so long as you stick together, well, fire and ice should have you covered."

Santana looked at Quinn and grinned. They just barely caught themselves from tapping their fists together. Quinn's ice form might be sturdy, but still, purposefully hitting a fiery fist with hers wouldn't be smart. "10-4, Ward Cleaver," Santana said. "Oh, and, you wanna talk to NBC for us when the city's not destroyed? We could probably use a few character witnesses tonight."

"All right," Steve said uncertainly, and they laughed and ran off.

They hadn't gone a block before another familiar voice bellowed for them to wait. Quinn cringed, and waited for her thick-headed suitor to catch up. "Hello, Thor," she said with a sigh.

"You should not go alone," he said.

"I'm not alone. I'm with my friend." Quinn gestured up at the sky, and at a flying spot that could very well be Brittany. "And my other friend." Maybe.

"I heard what the Captain said," Thor replied. "If one of you finds that your attacks are ineffective against these foes, then both your peril would become very grave. All of your tremendous strength might well be for naught."

"Our tremendous strength, huh?" Santana repeated, grudgingly approving.

"I have seen her in battle against the most dangerous of foes," Thor said, gesturing to Quinn. "Her courage is unrivaled and her composure would hold her hand steady while a thousand brasilwights rushed across the snow, baying for her blood."

Quinn shrugged at Santana when the other woman turned to her in question. "Fine," Quinn said. "You can come. But I'm still not dating you."

Thor, befuddled, smiled. "I took the advice of the tiny man you sent to council me, and have reconnected with the woman I love."

"So you don't want to date me."

"I do not take concubines," Thor said.

Good, she'd take that as a no.

"Fab. Then let's go kick some ass," Santana said, and lit up like a firework.

With any luck, they could find Mercedes while they were at it. If this was the night when the impossible happened and all of them were acting like heroes again, then this wasn't a night when any more of them were going to die.

* * *

"Are you sure about this?" Sam asked Mercedes as they ran through a wall of flames. It was hot inside her shields, but no worse than standing in direct summer sun during a heat wave. So long as she didn't use energy on any attacks, Mercedes had found that she could use her shields nearly indefinitely. Hopefully, 'nearly' would be enough.

"Sure," Mercedes said. Sweat soaked her shirt. Wasn't it supposed to be January? "We're fine, look." She gestured dismissively at how they'd made it through the worst of the inferno.

Something bolted out of the flames, all claws and screaming teeth, and Mercedes and Sam shrieked as it rebounded off the energy sphere. It hissed like a snake at them and they clutched each other. After another long hiss, it scurried back into the fire.

"I like muggers," Sam decided, wide-eyed. "Can we go back to just having muggers in New York?"

"I wasn't supposed to be a superhero," Mercedes griped as they set back into motion. Tina had some favorite spots in the area, and she was going to check every last one. Another friend of hers was _not_ about to die, and especially not her best friend. "I made the smart moves. I work at a desk. I took business classes!" Something else came up behind them and scratched at her shield, and growled as it slunk away. It left molten hoofmarks in the sidewalk. Mercedes stared at the cooling spots, and rounded on her boyfriend. "I know how to do pivot tables in Excel, Sam!"

"Work, right," Sam said, and fumbled for his phone. Mercedes doubted that any of those cell phone pictures would be usable, but she supposed the Bugle might give him some points for trying, at least. This was like warzone journalism.

Someone shot by overhead, and Mercedes squinted before giving up. She hadn't been able to tell which hero that was, but at least there was more support in the area than only Spider-Man. _Or that was the bad guy who did this and you're in even worse danger_ , she added to herself, and nearly missed a step. Nope. Nope, she wasn't thinking along that road, not right now. She had a friend to save. If there was some bad guy out there, then he could just try and fail to get through Mercedes' shields.

The next hero that Mercedes spotted, another block down and around a corner, was much easier to identify. Mercedes stared in disbelief at the jet of ice and snow aimed at another of those teeth-filled demon mouths, then crowed. Sam did the same when he realized who she'd seen, and they took the distance between them and Quinn and Santana as quickly as Mercedes could run. "Hey!"

Quinn took a second to hear her, but her icy face lit up with delight. "Mercedes! Sam!"

"Why are you here?" Santana asked Sam. Her eyes burned bright, but as she was still flesh beyond that, the considering slant of her mouth was easy to see.

"I'm not really sure," Sam admitted, "but we were right there when... boom." His hands spread apart, demonstrating the spread of the flames where they'd been standing. "Wait, you have Thor with you. That's Thor."

"Greetings," Thor said.

"I am just running into all the superheroes tonight," Sam said.

"And what do you do?" Thor asked Sam.

Sam's mouth worked for a second. "Uh. Try not to die."

Thor considered that. "A worthy goal. I hope you succeed."

"Me, too," Sam said.

"Sam, if you want to bolt, now's the time," Mercedes said. "I can tell them where to look for Tina, and then I can get your booty somewhere cooler."

"Wait," Quinn said. "You don't know where Tina is?" A deafening crack of thunder made all of them clap hands over their ears. They turned to see Thor looking proudly at the fire lizard he'd killed. "Thanks."

Mercedes' phone rang, but by the time she pulled it out and saw Artie's name on the screen, the call had ended. "The networks must be overwhelmed right now," Quinn said. "I'm amazed he even managed to call for two rings." Nodding, Mercedes shoved the phone back into her pocket. They were on their own, then.

"Tina's been gone all day," Mercedes said, "and then this happened. We're trying to find her. I could have taken Sam to safety, but he said he wanted to stick with me."

"If we took the time to get me somewhere else, she might get hurt," Sam said, shrugging.

"You're really brave," Brittany said. "It's really good, especially since you don't have any powers except to turn into a big blue cat."

"That was his Halloween costume," Santana said.

"And I wasn't a cat," Sam mumbled, "I was Jake Sully."

"You were the big furry thing from Monsters, Inc.?" Brittany asked. Her brow furrowed. "Okay, I can see it."

"Despite what it looks like," Quinn said wryly, "we can handle this together. Thor, will you go rejoin the perimeter sweep and hold hostiles inside the containment zone? You just showed really good range, there, and you should be put to use."

"You're sure that you are protected in this group?" he asked.

"Do I sound sure?" Quinn asked, and Santana turned to watch Thor's answer appraisingly.

He considered her back, and nodded. The Norse god and founding member of the Avengers inclined his head in respect. "That you do. I wish you good hunting, Quinn Fabray, and safety to you and your friends." His hammer began to spin in a frantic circle like some unwieldy helicopter, and then he lifted off toward the unholy heavens.

"That went a lot better than Tony Stark," Quinn said, satisfied.

"He's seen you work," Santana said. "When people actually see us kick butt, I guess we're not jokes any more."

"Then let's go have you two kick butt some more," Mercedes said, "and save Tina. I don't want to lose anyone else tonight. Sam?"

"I'm going with you four," Sam decided. "Just... please keep your shields up."

Mercedes kissed him. "You might not think it, baby, but you're already a hero."

His laugh sounded more like a sigh.

* * *

S.H.I.E.L.D. had identified two sources of power other than the obvious, very intimidating hole in the sky. Tucked away in buildings that weren't on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar as potential troublemakers, energy pulsed. Finn gnawed his lower lip as he watched them approach one of those buildings on the electronic map on Carole's dashboard.

Finn still wasn't sure why he'd asked to come. Back at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, he'd leapt at the chance to help. Now, as they drove under terrifying doorways into somewhere _else_ , this seemed like the worst idea he'd ever had. Worse than standing in front of that portal and getting shot. Worse than erasing Kurt's memories. Worse than sleeping with Santana for his first time, and going back to Quinn only to dump her, and praying to his sandwich and maybe kinda breaking Sam's arm. (He told himself that it hadn't really played out like that, but he couldn't be completely sure.)

"One of the buildings has no records at all," Carole said, and swerved around a fire pillar that spurted from the pavement.

Finn stared and clung to the car door's handle. _It's the Fire Swamp from Princess Bride._

"But the other," she continued after another swerve, "has someone who's been locked up by the NYPD for unauthorized superhuman activities."

"So we're going there, first?" he guessed.

"Yes. It's a graduate dorm, and even if people have run away, I'm sure there will be lots of people around." Carole risked glancing at him. "Finn, do you think you can hunt down whoever's doing this?"

"Sure." He didn't think that he sounded convincing, but Carole seemed reassured, and they took another corner at dangerous speeds.

When they got to the dorm building, chaos poured from its doors. Students and RAs shouted at each other. The evacuation seemed to be on the brink of collapse, because there was nowhere better for them to go. "What's the room number of that guy?" Finn asked as he fumbled with his seatbelt.

"1003. It says he's got a police anklet on, and it hasn't fired, so he has to be in there. We don't know that it's him doing this, but you can read his mind and see." Carole caught Finn's wrist. "Something very bad's going on inside this building. Be careful, all right?"

"Yeah, but aren't you coming in?" Finn asked, and glanced at the gun at her hip.

"Call me if you need me." She tapped her forehead. "I'm going to try to stop this from turning into a riot."

"Okay," Finn said, and nearly fell as he tried to untangle himself from her tiny department car. He blended in with the students at the door, and a RA tried to push him back. "Dude," Finn said, and opened a buffer of space in front of him with his telekinesis. His eyes glowed purple in the darkness. "I've got things to do."

The RA, startled, let Finn go. The students he passed looked confused as to whether they should follow his lead or stay away from the sudden appearance of what might be a mutant.

 _1003_ , Finn reminded himself as he ran into the lobby. Out of habit, he looked first for an elevator and pushed its button. He kept pushing it when it failed to light up, until he realized that it must have been shut down in an emergency. _Oh, right_. The stairway was close, and although it was locked from that side, its door couldn't stand up to telekinetic pressure of more than a ton.

Those were a lot of stairs, Finn thought unhappily, and he hadn't kept up with his sports like he'd done in high school. _I wish I could fly,_ he griped as he hurried to the second floor. _It's not fair. I can lift anything but myself._ Maybe that was something that he just hadn't gotten the knack for, yet, but considering that he might end up crumpling himself like an empty can if he tried, he was content to stay on the ground.

Most days he was, anyway. By the time he got to the eighth floor at a full run, trying to just fling himself up the center of the stairwell sounded very appealing.

 _All right. Where is he?_ Finn thought, scanning the floors above him. Carole had said that the boy had to be there because of that police bracelet, but he sensed no minds. That worried him. That might mean that whoever this guy was, he was able to shield himself from a telepath that Emma Frost apparently thought had quite a lot of raw power, even if that power was handicapped by Finn's poor control.

When Finn got to door 1003, panting, he forced himself to focus. Though he wouldn't make Emma proud with how thoroughly he scanned the room, she might not be embarrassed, at least.

Still empty. Either no one was in there, or someone incredibly dangerous was, but he couldn't wait on confirming either option. Without letting himself become scared over what he was about to do, Finn drew back his fist and sent another ton of telekinetic force flying from it. Wood veneer splintered and Finn rushed inside, ready to fight against whoever was in there.

The tiny apartment really was empty. No one was inside the bathroom, no one was hiding under the futon, no one had wedged himself into the bedroom's sliver of a closet. _Relax. React. Look,_ Finn told himself, and that was when he saw the abandoned blinking plastic anklet on the floor. Whoever this guy was, he'd gotten away.

Methodically, even though all his instincts screamed at him to run back out into the streets and start hunting for the former owner of that anklet, Finn started tearing through what the man had left behind. This was Emma's training. This was the training from his investigative job. Soon, Finn knew that he was looking for someone named Reggie, who liked MMOs but hated World of Warcraft because they 'pandered to casuals.' He'd just started a graduate program in ancient history, and from the look of some of the emails Finn rifled through, he'd gone into graduate school mostly because he feared not being able to find a job, or having to work from nine to five in a place he hated. He had a crush on just about every superheroine in New York, and thought that the girls in his actual classes were disgusting and overweight and useless in comparison.

Right. Finn had never met this guy, and he still knew exactly who he was looking for. With his mind open and reactive, Finn left the apartment and listened to everyone around him.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had tracked energy as coming out of this building, so whether it was Reggie or not, something was going on inside its walls. Maybe he'd find somewhere else that Reggie was hiding. Maybe he'd hear the echos of creepy demon things as they tried to break into New York City. But somewhere in that building, Finn was sure, he could figure out what to do.

When he went back down the stairs, he took them at a walk.

His mind was open. The people on the streets were a blazing mass of terror, like a car alarm that he couldn't ignore. Finn swept through their minds like combing his hands through autumn leaves. The collective raw fear nearly knocked him down.

This was just like hunting for that little kidnapped girl, Finn thought as he straightened and forced himself to move forward. Each step down the stairs drew him further into those memories.

_"Our source said she was around here," Tina said, but she sounded uncertain. That was unsurprising. They were in one of the worst neighborhoods of Brooklyn, that had successfully fought off gentrification until it found easier territory elsewhere. Just half a mile away there were new coffeehouses opening, but here, a policeman was a rare sight. Sources for areas like this were often unreliable at best, and at worst, might actively be trying to hurt them. They'd made enemies._

_"I'm ready," said Mercedes. Her fingertips flickered with her waiting shields._

_Mike landed and shook his head. "I don't see anything from up top." He and the others turned to Finn expectantly._

_Finn didn't like to read people's minds without permission, but the abduction of a helpless child was one of those situations where they all agreed that safety trumped privacy. Even though the sheer number of minds staggered him when he opened his powers to them, he kept at it. He heard arguments, self-doubt, and a hundred people who might not make it to Christmas for one reason or another. Actually feeling what it was like to be that old or that sick, and accepting that their bodies were shutting down around them, left his skin crawling, but Finn pressed on. There was nothing they could do there._

_He wasn't yet skilled enough to tell the difference between strong fear that was far away and weaker fear up close. They had to walk for a while before that spot of absolute terror started growing stronger, and Finn realized how bad it must be in person. That had to be it, and he started jogging slowly enough for Mercedes and Tina to keep up. Mike zipped off ahead to survey the area. When Finn's stomach started lurching, they knew they were close._

_Thanks to Tina, the basement that the men were working in had a sudden power outage; thanks to Finn and Mike, the men's skulls were knocked against the concrete walls; thanks to Mercedes, the target of their search was kept safe. The little girl must have hit puberty early, or else she was one of the poor kids whose mutations showed up at birth. She didn't look any older than ten years old, and yet her skin was covered in a leopard-like pattern, and her eyes were amber and tilted. Except for the straps holding her to the table, she was naked._

_With the full context for everything he'd felt, Finn bent over and threw up again._

_Bloody wounds streaked her arms. They were nestled carefully among her leopard spots, so that her skin's pattern would cover what these men had done to her. "They were harvesting for MGH," Mercedes said grimly as she wrapped the crying girl in her jacket. She didn't need to say what the girl would be sold for after that. If they hadn't come looking for her that night, chances were high that no one ever would have._

_They'd made five hundred dollars, inclusive of expenses, split among the four of them. It had been worth it._

The fear outside that night, when hell had apparently come to New York, was nothing compared to what that little girl had gone through. Finn made it back to the ground floor with nothing more than a headache. A few brave residents had started to come back inside by that point. "Go back out," Finn told them, turning in a slow circle. He could feel a different, more personal kind of fear that might belong to the villain in question. Confronting him could make the building a lot more dangerous inside than out.

"I'm not going out there again!" protested one girl.

Finn stared at her and lifted a couch, knowing that it would make his eyes glow. She yelped and fled, followed by the others. Good.

His target was in the basement laundry room. The banks of machines could have looked like towering monoliths in the dim emergency lights, but whoever was down there had seemingly lit every emergency candle and turned on every flashlight in the building. It was a spotlight down there, and as Finn cautiously poked around the edge of a row of washers, he saw the boy lit up like a star in its center.

No weapons, no obvious powers, no visible mutations. The only unusual thing Finn saw was a large book spread out on the floor, from which the boy was reading frantically. He read another verse, and a deep, bone-jarring explosion rocked the building's foundations a second later. With a yelp, he turned to the next page.

Finn bolted forward before he could do anything worse, and caught his wrist. He wrenched the boy away from the book and threw him into the wall.

"Who are you?" asked the boy. His pants were stained dark at the crotch. He'd been crying. "Are you a demon?"

"I'm trying to find and stop whoever turned this city into hell!" Finn shouted, and scanned his mind. His jaw set. "And I think I just found him, Reggie."

Reggie's eyes widened further. _Maybe he is a demon. Or a mutant. Or a demon mutant oh god oh god I'm going to die._

"You're not going to die if you shut all of this off," Finn said urgently.

"I'm trying," Reggie said, and inched back toward the book. 

"Then do it!" Finn ordered. Reggie looked like any normal student someone might stumble upon around that part of town, unremarkable in every way. But then, all of Finn's friends had looked like normal kids when their potential was unlocked, hadn't they? Maybe this kid had the potential to destroy the world, and he'd only needed that old book to do it.

These were the years when people revealed who they'd really be. These were the years when the decisions they made suddenly mattered a million times more.

"I can't," Reggie said, shaking. "I don't know what I did."

"What do you mean, you don't _know?_ " Finn demanded. He felt his fist ball, and telekinesis wrapped it like a boxing glove. It was hard not to let the blow fly. This guy had started blowing up New York City for real, and he didn't know what he'd done?

"I can't remember what I read," he said. "Oh, man, I don't even know."

"You don't remember what you read," Finn repeated.

"No!"

That was all the prompting he needed. Finn lunged forward and grabbed the boy's head in his hands, and ripped his memories open with all the skill and power that Emma Frost had been drilling into him for months. Reggie's mouth hung open as Finn rifled through his brain as efficiently as he'd checked his apartment upstairs.

He just wanted to be noticed. He just wanted something that he did to count. No one ever paid attention to him. He'd tried doing things the right way, and there was always someone better or faster. Or actual heroes would come by, and they never even saw him as anything more than a face in the crowd.

History research projects had become increasingly specific and obscure as he indulged his resentment over being no one at all. If he was never anyone's best friend or boyfriend or at the top of any class, why not just look at what he was interested in?

That interest had led him to ancient spellbooks, and for whatever reason, he'd given them a shot. His first spell had gone wrong. Instead of creating a loyal assassin ready to patrol the campus in his name, it formed a ruthless killer who began attacking people near the school.

After the horror faded, Reggie saw the news articles. People had noticed something he'd done. He tried more spells, just to see if he could manage them. And then he became noticed too far, too fast, and some crazy wannabe hero had been able to put him down. _It was Brittany,_ Finn realized as he saw a flash of that hero's face, and frowned. Out of all the heroes in the city, he didn't know if he liked that it was Brittany; weird things happened with her powers and coincidences weren't, always. Finn pushed past that and kept looking.

Reggie's spells had continued stalking the city. The assassin he'd created held the people in a coffee shop hostage, even after his arrest. Tiny angry demons no bigger than squirrels had frolicked and bitten students on the ankles, and then vanished once they'd caused arguments or sent a couple home in tears. Eventually, though, Reggie's spells ran out, and he was left staring at the book that had let him summon only a few worthless demons and an assassin he couldn't control.

He was a selfish coward who saw nothing beyond himself, and he was also lonely and lost and desperately in need of a voice. When no one listened no matter how loudly he pleaded for attention, he acted out like a child throwing a tantrum, but with all the strength of an adult. And when someone told him that the book really did hold power, he decided to give it another shot.

That someone had been Jesse St. James.

Brittany had been a coincidence. Two people that Finn knew? This was getting into Danger, Danger Will Robinson territory. "How did you open this doorway if you didn't know what you were doing?" Finn asked when he finished ripping through Reggie's memories.

"Someone else was doing magic," Reggie said. "They opened something that I couldn't, and I tried to...." He hiccupped, and started to cry. "I didn't mean for it to go this far. I didn't mean to screw up what they were doing. I didn't know. I'll fix it. I'd help."

One last flash of memory hit Finn like a slap across the face: Tina, torturing Reggie and taking the book that was now in front of him. Right, then. Three strikes, and any idea of random coincidence was _definitely_ out.

 _Mom!_ Finn thought, and managed to pick Carole out of the crowd outside. He was definitely better than he had been before Emma. _Can you get me to the other building? The one with the energy you guys saw?_

_Yes, but why?_

_I have the guy who accidentally opened a hell portal and he's hoping that this'll fix it. Maybe._

Exhaustion poured out of Carole, and Finn realized how unlikely his solution sounded. But this had been a string of unlikely occurrences so far, tying all of their lives together when they'd been running apart like they had something to prove. Their powers had unlocked potential, and it had unlocked it together for all of them. Maybe they were supposed to work together now to fix all of this, before it was too late.

If that were so, Finn had a pretty good suspicion of who was the other magic user who'd opened that door. If they were very lucky, Tina might be able to close it.

* * *

If Brittany hadn't been flying as a lookout, they might have run right past the building where Tina was trying to save the city.

Though most of southern Manhattan was ablaze, this building glowed white out of the cracks in its roof, rather than boasting glowing red rivers. Something was going on inside, and Brittany zipped to the ground and pointed at it before her friends and lover could run on. Inside of Mercedes' shields, crowded so close that they could feel the sweat on each other's clothes, they eased themselves through its door. Once they were confident that the building wasn't about to come down on their heads, they left the security of Mercedes' bubble and ran for the stairs.

Tina was sobbing as she slumped over a book, and dark tears poured from her eyes. Brittany stepped back, stomach lurching, as she realized that they were red tears made black in the darkness. _That's so scary and gross._

"What did you do?" Mercedes asked, and knelt down next to Tina. She tried to take the book away, but Tina's hands tightened around its edges.

"No," Tina wheezed. "Not me. I'm trying to stop it. Someone else... they...."

"You've got a book open about doorways to hell," Sam pointed out as he sat by her other side. "I'm just saying, this doesn't look good for you." Tina glared at him with her bloody eyes, and Sam scrambled back.

"Tina, did you turn New York into hell?" Brittany asked. "Because we're really not supposed to do that."

"I am trying to hold this city together," Tina gritted out. Something screeched as it flew past the window, and she jabbed her fingernail toward it. That nail was ripped and dirty with something that Brittany couldn't identity, not did she want to. "And you are distracting me!"

Quinn's cell phone crackled to life, and she looked at it in surprise when it kept ringing, unlike Mercedes' phone before. "I thought the cell networks would be down right now."

"Distraction!" Tina snapped.

Quinn took the hint and moved to the far side of the room, joined by Brittany and Santana. 

"They are," said Artie's voice. "This is all me. I rock. Have you found the source of... uh, hell?"

"It might have come from Tina reading the seriously wrong book," Santana said uncertainly. "Like, Tom Riddle's diary is freaking Nicholas Sparks compared to this. But she thinks there's someone else bad involved."

"I knew it," said Kurt. "It's Doom, isn't it? Oh god."

"Calm down," Quinn said. "There are absolutely no signs that it's him."

"The sky is on fire, Quinn!"

"And since when does Doctor Doom set the sky on fire, Kurt?" she asked, just as loud.

"Well, he's a genius and evil, I'm sure it's somewhere in his repertoire!"

"It's okay," Brittany said. "Tina's working really hard to stop whatever's going on. Everything's going to be okay." Everyone else didn't seem as convinced, and she shrugged. "We're heroes. We always get happy endings and win. Sometimes it just takes a long time, but we can't get a happy ending if we're in hell. So, Tina's going to do okay."

"Finn's on the way with the guy who might have done it," Artie said after a beat. "So, he can tell you exactly what happened. Hopefully."

Mercedes grabbed the phone from Quinn's hands. They glanced over to see Tina shaking, and Sam comforting her where she crouched. "Artie, we need to end this call right now," she said. 

"Mercedes," said Kurt.

"Yeah." Mercedes looked agonized. "That's why. She can't hear your voice. It's not easy for me to hear, but she _can't._ "

"Bullshit," Puck began, and Quinn instantly shoved Mercedes out into the hall. Brittany and Santana slipped out just before she closed the door, and eavesdropped blatantly. "I'm sick of people making it seem like he hasn't been through anything, when—"

"Puckerman, Tina's crying blood and trying to hold hell doors closed. We don't want to distract the nice, creepy lady," Santana said.

"She tried to kill Kurt!"

Brittany's eyes widened. She didn't think she knew that. That was really bad. She knew that everyone _would_ get their happy ending, somehow, but that wouldn't help.

"No, Puck." Kurt said it very soft. "It's okay. Let her focus. She's able to do something useful tonight, even if I can't." Static almost swallowed his light laugh. "Remember when we made all those costumes together? The three of us? You, me, and Tina?"

Mercedes didn't say anything, but her eyes filled with tears. She nodded. "Yeah. But now I need to go."

"Okay," Kurt said, and it sounded like giving up. He stayed silent as Mercedes handed the phone back to Quinn, opened the door, and walked back through it.

"Fuck her," said Puck. He sounded angry, but Brittany was just sad. It felt like they were all working together again, finally, but the pieces didn't fit together. Would they again, ever?

"No." Kurt's voice was a sad smile. "I killed Mike. There are some things you just can't change." 

His resignation punctured Brittany's spirits further. Childhood was the end to do-overs. Now, they were all being tried as adults. When Santana looked at her, Brittany realized she'd said the last part out loud.

"Haven't you figured it out?" Kurt asked. "Heroes are made so that they can die. The brightest-burning candles don't last, after all." 

_We can be heroes... just for one day._ It rang through Brittany's head and her expression dropped further. No. She wanted the world that Sam had believed in, where bad guys failed and good guys won, and there were special collectible covers when two heroes got married. She didn't want this sad Christopher Nolan version of heroes that Kurt was buying into. She liked George Clooney much more as Batman than she'd ever liked Christian Bale. Christian's voice sounded weird, everything was so depressing, and Heath Ledger died.

"Fuck that," Santana and Puck said in unison, and laughed when they realized what they'd done. 

Puck kept on talking. "We're going to figure this out. This is just a bump in the road, and everything's going to smooth out and everyone's going to be happy again. We can turn invisible and lift cars, we can figure out how to have Christmas together. Five of them. All of them."

"You don't celebrate Christmas," Kurt reminded him.

"You do. So we will. Do you think I drove for two years to figure out what mattered, just so you can decide that things won't work out? Remember when you were in the hospital? When you were smiling?" Puck actually sounded angry, but scared, too. Santana's fingers interlaced with Brittany's and squeezed. "Well, figure out how to get back to that, because you're supposed to be the guy who knows what he's doing. Because I don't. And when you say that you don't matter, you don't know what the hell you're talking about. So shut up. Just shut the fuck up and remember that you're staying alive, we're getting you away from Doom, and we are all going to be big fucking heroes in our fucking walkers!" 

"This is apparently Puck's version of a pep talk," Artie said.

"Everyone just save this fucking city, and we'll figure out what to do next!"

"I really don't think it's Doom," Quinn said. "But guys? Stay safe. Just in case."

"You too," Artie said. "Boy. I really wish I could be there with you."

"If you can tell us what's happening to the city," Brittany said, "that'd be super useful, don't worry. You're still a total hero, Artie."

"I know that. They're just having a, uh, moment right now, and I feel about a zillion kinds of awkward."

"Tongue?" Santana asked.

"Don't make me look."

She laughed. "Okay. Keep us up to speed, and oh my god who is that loser in a penguin shirt?"

Coming up the stairs, prodded by Finn, was indeed some random loser in a penguin t-shirt. Although Brittany couldn't make out his true body odor in all the smoke and hellfire, she was almost certain that he smelled of Cheetos and failure. She knew that look. It belonged to everyone who'd stared wistfully at her from the bleachers as she danced on the Cheerios.

"I'm supposed to tell your creepy magic lady what I did with this book," said the loser, and held it out. "So hopefully she can fix things."

"Wait, did you do all of this?" Quinn asked.

"Not on purpose! I just wanted to be a villain! Not a real supervillain. I wanted to maybe face the Young Avengers, not the real ones. Did you know Thor's out there?" He shivered and held the book tight. "I'm glad he didn't zap me."

"He should have," Santana snapped, and steered him through the door. "Seriously, what good was bringing along Blond Ned Stark if he's not gonna take out all the trash for us?"

"Well, he did treat us like serious heroes," Quinn said.

"Whatever."

"If NBC hassles us, maybe he can destroy their building."

Santana considered that. "Fine. Do your stuff, Nerd-O."

"I watch your show," the loser said nervously as he was guided toward Tina. "You're really hot."

Santana's nose wrinkled. "Stop talking. Just stop."

"You?" Tina asked tiredly as he came close and she looked up. Her gaze dropped to the book in his hand, and somehow her expression fell further. "I was being nice, giving that back."

"Sorry," said the loser.

"I wanted to save you a library fine."

"Sorry," he repeated. "You did torture me, though."

"Dude, you summoned some evil shadow killer thing that held people hostage at a Starbucks," Finn said, and shoved him to the ground. "You don't get to guilt trip people."

"You probably shouldn't have tortured him, though," Brittany said as he and Tina started comparing notes. "We're supposed to be the good guys, and bad guys torture people. That's what I learned from Jon Stewart."

"Give me a chance to fix this," Tina gritted out, "and then we'll talk."

"Okay. You know your eyes are bleeding, right?"

"Yes. Shut up, I need to focus."

Brittany shrugged, and folded her legs like she was sitting on the air. Santana trailed her fingers through Brittany's hair as she floated. "We should probably go back out into the city," Santana said, rather unsincerely.

"Let's wait," Quinn said. "Just for a second. I need room to breathe." They nodded in silent agreement and turned to watch whatever was happening. The loser had sat opposite Tina, with Finn and Sam looming over his shoulders. Despite the damage he'd caused, now he looked almost meek as he flipped pages and pointed out verses to Tina. 

"I was closing that door, you know," Tina said.

"I know. I'm sorry. I didn't realize it'd spiral out of control that bad." The loser's smile wavered. "Do you think they'll really expel me after this?"

Mercedes joined them, hugging her arms and casting suspicious looks at the spellcasting pair. "This is why magic is bad," she said. "Magic is bad and wrong, and you should just leave well enough alone. I don't wanna be over there, next to the creepy books and weird spells."

"Everything'll work out," Brittany said, and looked at her fiancée. The word made her tingle, and she grinned at Santana in loving amazement. Santana smiled right back at her. "We're heroes. We always pull things out at the end."

That was when the sky opened again and the street turned to flames. Finn bolted for the window, eyes glowing, and held out his hand. A second later, singed but alive, Carole was unceremoniously pulled through the window and dumped on the floor. "What just happened?" she asked, wobbly.

A shockwave hit. Mercedes threw up her shields, but only Brittany, Santana, and Quinn were close enough to use it. Finn's telekinetic shield only blocked part of the blow for him and his mother. They were left dazed and useless on the ground. Where the other three had been studying the books on the floor, there'd been no protection at all. Sam and Tina were unconscious, and Brittany was only sure that they were breathing when Mercedes dropped her shield and rushed to check them. That loser in the penguin t-shirt had been sent rolling by the force of the blow, and had impacted the wall. A few smears of blood were below him.

"I couldn't stop it," Tina murmured, and slipped back under.

Finn tried to stand, and failed. "There was... something screaming... I... Tina wasn't strong enough." He sat back down hard after another try, and Carole fretted. 

Quinn's phone crackled to life. "Guys," Artie said, "there's some huge energy signature moving toward you. Uh, you might want to move? Now?"

"We can't," Mercedes said. "Artie, Finn can barely walk. You think any of us can move Finn out of here? He's a tree!"

"Wait, Finn's there already?" Kurt asked.

Santana grabbed the phone. "Artie, can you get the Avengers over here? They're out in the streets. Just... figure out how to get Thor here, and he'll hold anything off. Do it!" she added when he hesitated.

"But he doesn't carry a communicator."

"Why not?" Santana demanded.

"I don't know, they probably confuse him! Tony told me how once he threw an iPad at the wall because he thought that was how you play Angry Birds!"

"Please, Artie," Quinn said. "Just find someone. Sam and Tina are unconscious, too. Kurt and Lauren barely managed to carry Blaine and Sam back then. We won't be able to get everyone to safety tonight. We need help."

"Please, Artie," Kurt echoed softly. "I could... I could go."

"Are you sure?" Puck asked.

"I didn't get the shot, I know. But I can't let them die. Will you—"

Whatever Kurt asked Puck was interrupted by the wall caving in. Brittany screamed as a dark twisting something tore the bricks apart and hissed when it saw the fallen magic users on the floor.

"No!" Quinn and Santana shouted, and lunged for it. They met it in a wall of fire and ice, and smoke and steam poured out and blinded them.

"Finn, help!" Brittany shouted as she squinted into the darkness. 

_Trying. Head hurts._

Brittany swallowed. The dark thing was kept outside the building by Quinn and Santana's efforts, but when it got into the large office loft it'd take it over quickly, with little room left for them. Considering how it had stared right at those books, she doubted very much that it should be allowed to get its creepy claws on them. "Mercedes," she said shakily, "go help Finn and his mom. Finn needs to get rid of his headache so he can maybe control this thing and make it go away, and Finn's mom has guns and stuff."

"Do you think guns will help?"

Brittany met Mercedes' eyes. They both knew the answer, but they still had to try. Shields up, Mercedes ran through the smoke to find Finn on the far side of the room. "Okay, evil hell guy!" Brittany said, and tried to sound confident. _I always give speeches. I always tell them who I am. I'm a hero, and I'm going to stop this._ "I'm Haywire, and these are... lots of other people, actually, and we're going to stop you!"

For one long second, it studied her with its awful, shifting face, and she hoped that she'd somehow cowed the beast. Then it opened its mouth and flames shot forth.

From where Santana and Quinn had run, Brittany heard a scream. Fear gripped her, and sharpened when that scream cut suddenly off. It had only been a single voice, but in the din, she couldn't tell who had just had their voice silenced.

"No," Brittany whispered, and stepped forward. "Santana?"

No one answered.

"Santana!" Brittany screamed. "Quinn!"

The demon laughed, sounding like twisting metal.

"This isn't fair," Brittany pleaded tearfully to anyone who would hear. This wasn't how their lives should work, was it? Once, they'd sung Don't Stop Believin' and thought that anything could happen. Yet this year, with amazing powers and amazing jobs, had made people stop thinking that they were headed for something better. They'd stopped believing in anything.

They'd stopped believing in themselves.

Mike was gone. Kurt was close to shattered, and Puck might be in over his head trying to keep him afloat. Quinn and Santana had probably been headed for court, and now Brittany didn't even know if they were alive. _Santana, you'd better come out of there right this second,_ Brittany thought, sounding very like her mother. That was intentional. Mothers could fix things. Mothers were the grown-ups who could _fix things_ , and they were just _kids_ , they didn't deserve this.

They were supposed to be heroes. They deserved the same ticker-tape parade that Brittany got every day. They deserved proposals on top of a skyscraper, and racing each other to the altar instead of the morgue. 

They deserved second chances.

"I saved Finn," Brittany said, as she stared into the blazing flames unblinking. Were Finn and Carole still alive on the far side of the room? Her jaw shook from the effort of clenching it as she took a step forward. The heat was oppressive, but she kept walking. "I can do this again."

The fire writhed like a living being, laughing at her attempts to fight it. This wasn't any sort of _traditional_ fire, her mind said, ridiculously. This was living impossible hellfire, and it wasn't going to give up what it had claimed. She tried to wish it away, and it stayed. She tried to pull back Santana and Quinn from its grasp, so they'd never gone inside, and they stayed gone.

Though Brittany's heart ached, she tried again, only grabbing for Santana. If there was only one person in the entire world she could save, it would be her.

Santana didn't return.

"No," Brittany said as tears began to stream. "No! We're heroes! We're the good guys! We get big adventures and happy endings!" She reached out and grabbed strings of probability and yanked, hard. The walls around them shimmered and wavered like a mirage. "We don't learn that there's all this stuff that we can't do no matter how hard we try!"

"Brittany!" Mercedes yelled, and tried to rush forward to pull her back. Even in her shields, it was too hot, and she had to retreat.

 _I probably don't have long,_ Brittany realized distantly, and looked around. She could see something off in the flames, slumped on the floor. It could be a body. She couldn't tell whose.

"No!" Brittany screamed, and reached out for a deep, thick vein of reality that joined every last one of them like tree roots to the ground. It had happened a long time ago, but Brittany had seen everything that had happened in person. They'd studied its effects and played out its consequences, and those consequences had led ultimately to here. Even though it had happened years earlier, Brittany pulled that glowing string with a firm grip. It was heavy; almost too heavy to manage. She didn't know whether her muscles, mind, or soul was straining, and the flames began to lick at her legs as she worked.

Mercedes called for her. Finn's thoughts slid off her mind. 

As Brittany tugged that string hard enough to tear it, she stared at the body in the flames.

It was the last thing she saw before reality unfolded and rewrote itself with the last wish her powers had made.

* * *

Reality settled back into a comfortable place at a time months earlier than they'd been. 

New York was calm and grey, and as the rainclouds broke, sunlight brought color back to a city ready to launch into the heights of summer. The streets looked clean after the rains left, like they'd been scrubbed. It was the third such rainy day in a week, where torrential downpours rolled through and vanished just as quickly. The entire city had been pressure-washed.

When the rains stopped, they took so much with them.

They took away deaths. They took away pain. They took away hardships. People got the second chance that so many of them wanted, even though they didn't know the world had been reset.

Eleven teenagers never knew that, in some other world, a field trip to their parents' work had given them superpowers. Here, it had been just another day. 

One day changed, and so did their lives. That Tesseract energy never surged. The project never took a new direction and New Directions never came to be. Eleven students never set foot in Ohio, and never saved each other's lives.

"Do you think she's up there?" Tina asked, looking at planes criss-crossing the sky with contrails. Her voice was soft, like she was afraid the wrong person might be listening in. Her dark plum lipstick was nearly gone on her lower lip, where she'd gnawed it off nervously.

"Huh?" Finn asked, glancing over as he tossed a football between his hands. He and Puck were going to throw it around, which was why they were walking to the park. Tina kept looking up at the sky, and Finn slid an arm around her waist and kissed her on the forehead. "I can't read your mind, babe. Who're you talking about?"

"Rachel."

Finn's arm stiffened and he pulled it away. Tina cringed and fought back the urge to apologize. It felt like she'd done something wrong. "Could be," Finn said, and tossed the football again like it punctuated his sentence. "I don't care what she does with her life."

"She's going to London." Tina felt like she was on unstable ground, but Rachel had been Finn's first girlfriend. Even if they'd split on terrible terms, surely he'd want to know if she'd left the country, quite possibly for good.

"Fine, whatever." Finn spiked the ball and it rebounded at an odd angle. Swearing, he walked down the sidewalk after it, and grabbed it from the old woman it had smacked on its trip. "I seriously don't care. Let her go to London, let her be a big star. No one's going after her. No one's going to see her shows." He visibly resisted the urge to spike the ball again, and instead tucked it under his arm. "Did you know Kurt moved? I knew about that."

"Uh huh," Tina said. 

"I'll go visit him," Finn said in challenge. Tina again resisted the urge to apologize. Finn wasn't mad at her, but at Rachel and the way she'd left him. If she told herself that enough times, maybe she could remember it. "As soon as he gets a place and job in L.A., I'll see him." No one knew why Kurt had started making plans to leave New York as soon as he'd graduated; apparently, not even his brother.. From the details he'd shared, it sounded like it had been on his mind for a long time. "Come on," Finn said after a long, dark look at the jet trails appearing in the spaces between the clouds. "You can come watch me and Puck throw this."

Tina smiled, and followed him, relieved that they'd avoided an argument. She could hold her own when it came to that, but she preferred avoiding conflict in the first place.

"Dude," Puck laughed as Finn fumbled a catch. "You suck."

Finn snatched the football off the ground and narrowed his eyes. He grinned when a child passed him wearing a shirt with a familiar logo, and said, "Captain America aims his pass... and it's good! But the receiver fumbles!"

"Captain America's throw sucked!" Puck yelled. Someone shot by overhead and he pointed at whatever hero had passed. "He thinks so, too!"

"I think that was Ms. Marvel," Tina guessed. She'd seen black with a flash of long blonde hair.

"She, whatever." Puck took aim with the ball. "And dude, shoot for better powers than that, if you're gonna pick some. Lasers and death rays and shit."

"Claws from my hands," Finn agreed. "Throwing bombs and stuff. Cool powers."

"Wait, throwing bombs is cool. You don't get that. That's mine."

Neither boy asked Tina what powers she'd like. As their argument ripened, she smiled, picturing herself flying, or reading minds, or twisting girders into knots. _I could handle powers,_ she thought. _I could be a good hero._ Finn's expectant look made her realize that she'd missed a pass. "Great catch, baby!" she cooed, and he preened.

Finn's ego was sated for a while, and he and Puck kept each other occupied. Tina laid back on the still-damp grass and watched the clouds clear overhead. By then, the contrail she'd seen was faded and fuzzy, lost among countless others.

 _I wonder if Rachel's really left by now._ She'd thought it was an impossible change when Kurt got on that plane to Los Angeles, but a whole new country was so much more. Was she supposed to make a change in her life, too? What was she supposed to do when she grew up, to make it feel like her life mattered?

That was the question, wasn't it, she thought with a sigh as one of those contrails faded out to nothing. _Who are you supposed to be?_


End file.
